Gunshot
by theHuntgoeson
Summary: Post-Series 2 Episode 8. The very different consequences of the fateful gunshot for Gene and for Alex. Loads of angst, Galex eventually.
1. On the Lam

**Disclaimer: I don't own Ashes to Ashes. The BBC, Monastic and Kudos have that honour.**

**This is the first thing I've posted in over three months. That's because I've been writing it ever since Series 2 ended, and I never start posting anything until I've finished writing it.**

**This is my way of working out my shock and trauma at the ending of Series 2. Serious angst on the way - but remember, I hate unhappy endings...**

**As ever, all reviews and feedback are greatly appreciated, and I ALWAYS reply to signed-in reviewers!**

"Bolly! BOLLY! _BOLLY!_"

He'd hoped, begged, all but prayed to whatever powers existed in this world and any other, for the chance to see her again. To tell her that it was an accident. That he hadn't meant to shoot her. He'd been so sure that, as soon as she heard him, she'd come back from whatever dark place she had gone to, sit up, and slap him around the chops again.

Now it was all going horribly, horribly wrong.

She was lying there, so white and still, an oxygen mask over her face, tubes and wires sticking out everywhere. It was like she was on a different planet. This wasn't his Bolly, so full of wit and anger and fiery self-righteousness. This was only her shell. His bullet had sent her bright spirit somewhere so far away that he could not bring her back.

He had never felt so terrified in his life. Partly, of course, it was fear for himself, knowing that, if she did not wake up and explain everything, he was headed for an attempted murder rap, his career finished. Mostly, though, it was fear for her, that he would never see her open her eyes again, never hear her voice, that she would die here without waking up. Without knowing all the things that he wanted, _needed_, to tell her. And it was that blind terror which made him resort to shouting and violence, just as he always had. Of course he knew that he should be quiet and gentle, that he should hold her hand, beg her, cajole her, say things that she would want to hear. But there just wasn't time for that. The nurses might come back any second. So he bawled and bellowed in her unresponsive face, and then he was quiet, staring at her, sunk in self-disgust. _Threaten to slap her? That'll _really_ make her want to wake up. Great career move, Hunt._

"I don't know whether anyone is with her at the moment. I'll go and see."

His head jerked up sharply, like a lion scenting the wind, at the sound of the nurse's voice outside. _Time's up. _He glanced at her one last time in hopeless longing, reached out to caress her hand in farewell, and pulled back. He didn't deserve to touch her. _Start saving your own miserable skin._ He drew back behind the curtains screening her bed and glanced cautiously into the corridor. A nurse, with her back to the door, was talking to a visitor whom he couldn't identify.

"I wasn't sure if anyone would be allowed to see her," the visitor said diffidently. The voice was familiar, but Gene couldn't place it yet. Moving cautiously, he stole out of Alex's room and crossed the corridor behind the nurse's back, praying that the visitor would be too deep in conversation with the nurse to notice him. There was a bank of payphones on the far side of the corridor, and he headed for one, picked up a phone, and pretended to dial a number, grateful that the hood of the phone booth would shield his face.

"She's not forbidden to have visitors," said the nurse. "The more she has, the better. She's in a deep coma, and if people she knows keep talking to her, it could help her to wake up. Her colleagues have been very good, but a new voice would be welcome."

"I saw in the paper that she's in a coma," said the visitor. Gene could see him now, in the reflection of the booth hood. A young man with a long face and prominent ears, wearing shabby denims and a woollen hat, clutching a bunch of flowers wrapped in paper. _Marcus Johnstone. Simon Neary's ex-boyfriend. What the hell's he doing here?_

"She may not remember me," Marcus went on. "She must meet so many people through her job. But she and her DCI turned my life around when I was going through a bad time, and I'll always be grateful to them."

"That's good," the nurse said warmly. "Come in, then. Her room's just here."

"Thank you. Could I - " Marcus glanced at his flowers and then back at the nurse. "Do you have a vase for these, please?" He put on his best appealing puppy-dog expression, and Gene saw the motherly nurse melt.

"Of course. Just wait there a moment, and I'll get you one."

As soon as she had gone, Marcus glanced over to the booth, whipped a piece of paper and pencil from his pocket, scribbled something down, and walked over to the booth next to Gene's. Gene quickly turned away, still with the receiver to his ear, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Marcus's hand sliding a folded piece of paper onto the top of the coin box. He covered it with his hand as the nurse returned, looking surprised at seeing Marcus beside the phones.

"Just been letting my Mum know I might be late," he said shyly, quickly moving towards her.

"Ah, that's kind. Here's your vase, love. She's in here. I hope you can do her some good."

"Thank you. So do I."

Marcus went into Alex's room and the nurse walked away. Gene hung up, pocketed the note, and strode briskly away down the corridor. Once he had got out of the hospital, he walked for a good ten minutes, keeping to side streets as much as he could, before stopping to read what Marcus had written.

_If you need somewhere to stay, come to 25 Wilton Court, Barony Road, Finchley. I will be there at 6.00 tonight._

_Good lad. If anyone else found it, it couldn't be linked to either of us. _He considered for a moment. Could this be a trap? The boy had only just been speaking highly of him. He knew that Alex had occasionally been in touch with Marcus since Neary's arrest, and that the lad was still living with his parents and had found a job as a mechanic. There was not a sniff to indicate that he was still in contact with the gangster fraternity. Gene could not imagine what this was all about, but he badly needed a bolt-hole until this mess was all straightened out. Or at least until he decided what to do next. He did not dare to think that it might never be straightened out. He had not gone home since the shooting, knowing that his flat would be watched. He had been walking the streets of London for three days and nights, not even risking stopping to buy food in case he was recognised. If he did not find somewhere to hide, soon, his strength would give out, but he had nowhere to turn. He scarcely knew a soul in London outside his team, except for gangsters, villains, lags, and nonces who would sell their grannies for 50p. He had contemplated trying to get to Annie or Jackie in Manchester, certain that either would shelter him for old time's sake, but Jackie had a four-month-old baby on her hands, and Annie had already suffered enough. He could not impose himself upon either of them. In any case, he had no means of getting there. He had reluctantly abandoned the Quattro in King Douglas Lane, knowing that it was too distinctive for him to drive while he was on the run. He had to hope that Ray or Chris would make sure that it was well looked after until its master returned. If he returned.

_Bolly trusted the kid, and he came good for us. I'll trust him too. No choice. _He glanced at his watch. 2.35. He had no idea how long it would take him to walk to Barony Road, but he had better get going.

_Finchley? How the hell am I to know how to get to bloody Finchley?_ He was still a stranger to large areas of London. The only parts he knew were on his patch. He started walking anyway, orienting himself in the general direction of north-east London. Passing a news kiosk, he risked breaking cover long enough to buy an _A to Z_ which used up most of the remaining money in his pocket. The vendor was busy serving half a dozen customers who wanted evening papers, and did not give him a second glance.

Assisted by his new purchase, still keeping to side streets as much as possible, he found his way to Barony Road and 25 Wilton Court, a flat on the second floor of a shabby but decent-looking block. His fingers curled around his gun as he rang the doorbell. If this was a trap, he would go down fighting.

Marcus answered the door, a dishcloth over his shoulder, smiling his welcome. "Hello! I'm glad you could get here. Do come in." Through his now overwhelming fatigue, Gene noticed that the boy was keeping it impersonal, just in case any neighbours might hear. He stumbled through the front door, and Marcus quickly closed it behind him.

"Do hang up your coat and make yourself at home, Mr Hunt. Don't worry, you'll be quite safe here. Supper should be ready in a few minutes. I don't know what you like, so I've done a fry-up - bacon, eggs and sausages. I hope that's all right."

The aroma from the kitchen made him weak at the knees, but he gathered his self-possession and faced Marcus. "First, will you tell me what the _bloody 'ell_ is going on?"

Marcus regarded him quizzically for a moment, his head tilted on one side. "Supper first, I think, Mr Hunt. You look as though you could do with it. Explanations later."

Almost mechanically, Gene suffered Marcus to help him off with his coat, staggered through to the living room, and collapsed gratefully into an armchair. He would never take a roof over his head for granted again. He could gladly have fallen asleep there and then, but almost at once Marcus summoned him to the kitchen, where he fell upon the food like the starving lion he was. Marcus had cooked enough for two, but ate very sparingly, leaving Gene to devour most of it. Marcus apologised that there was not much by way of dessert, but brought a bowl of fruit to the table, most of which disappeared down Gene's gullet before he turned his attention to the coffee.

Perhaps eating first had been a good idea. He felt decidedly more human by the time Marcus led the way back to the living room and they sank into the squashy armchairs.

"Right, son, ta _very _much for the 'ospitality, but now I 'ave to repeat my question. _What is going on 'ere_?"

"I'll explain from the beginning," said Marcus quietly. "I own this flat. Simon bought it in case he, or any of his friends, ever needed somewhere to hide. He registered it in my name so that it couldn't be traced back to him, and only he and I know it exists. I expect I should have declared it when Simon was arrested, but - well, I was scared in case any of his friends came after me for revenge, or after my mum and dad, so I kept quiet about it in case we needed it. He had this place fully soundproofed, and he had proper blackout curtains fitted. Unless you open a window or put the lights on before you draw the curtains, nobody will know you're here. I look in here quite regularly to check that the food supplies are OK, so the neighbours are used to seeing me around. You can stay here as long as you like."

Gene stared at him. "But - _why?_"

"I saw you coming out of DI Drake's room in the hospital, and I know you're in trouble. You heard me say to the nurse, you and DI Drake turned my life around. You and she know that I shot Simon. You could have charged me with attempted murder, but you didn't. You saved me from jail, and you got me away from Simon. You gave me the chance to start again. God knows what would have happened to me by now, if it hadn't been for the two of you. If I'd stayed with him, he'd have finished me off because I knew too much, or else I'd have ended up becoming like him. I can never repay the debt I owe to the two of you. Especially to her, and I know she'd want me to help you now."

_I'm not so sure about that. _"You do realise that this could get you into more shit than you ever got into wi' Neary? I'm on the lam from a charge of attempted _murder_."

"Yes. But I know you didn't do it. You _can't_ have done it."

The boy's bright-eyed confidence disconcerted him. "What makes you think that?" he said guardedly.

"Because if you had, you wouldn't have risked everything to try to see her in hospital," said Marcus firmly. "And just because I don't like women that way, doesn't mean that I don't notice the way other men look at them. I saw how you looked at her, when you and she were working on Simon's case, and I know you'd never harm a hair on her head."

"But I did," said Gene miserably. "I did shoot 'er. I just didn't - _shoot_ 'er."

Marcus looked shocked for a moment, then recovered. "You mean it was an accident?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it was. An' it looks bad. We'd 'ad an argument beforehand, see, an' there weren't any witnesses to the shooting, 'cept one who's legged it and would be glad to see me swing."

Marcus settled back in his chair. "Do you want to talk about it?" he said gently.

Talking about it was the last thing Gene wanted to do at the moment, but he resisted the temptation to tell the nosy kid to button his lip and piss off. He already owed Marcus, and if he wasn't to be turfed out on his ear, he owed his host some explanation.

"We'd 'ad word that there was a blag about to come off, a biggy. There'd been - trouble - in my team, someone I'd thought I could rely on 'ad been caught taking bungs. Didn't know who I could trust any longer, but I did think I could still rely on Drake."

"Of course you could," said Marcus warmly.

"Yeah, well, so did I, but then I found a tape on my desk. I played it. It was 'er, talking about bringin' me down. About 'avin' to fight me. I asked 'er what it was all about. She didn't even give me a proper answer, just a load of bollocks about coming from the future."

"What?"

"You 'eard me!" Gene snapped. "After that I didn't dare trust 'er either. She seemed to have inside information about the blag, I thought she might be working with 'em. The night before the blag was due to blow, we' ad a big row an' I ended up suspending 'er. She was marching out of the office, an' I shouted after 'er, "I'm doing this without you, and you dare to get in my way, I swear to God I will kill you!" The whole team heard me. Plenty of reliable witnesses."

Marcus pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. "I see. But you didn't mean it, did you? You wouldn't _really_ have killed her?"

"Of course not," Gene muttered. "I was bloody mad, and I thought she'd betrayed me, but, no, I wouldn't 'ave - couldn't - "

"So, how did the accident happen?"

Gene stared into nothingness. "Blag went off the next day, just like she'd said it would. Still don't know 'ow she knew. One of the leaders made a bunk for it and I gave chase. Caught 'im in St Joseph's, the ruined church off King Douglas Lane. 'E was holding Drake at gunpoint, an' I 'eard 'im say to 'er, "I saw you couldn't be corrupted." "

"So you'd been wrong about her?"

"Don't know. I challenged 'im to drop 'is gun, an' 'e twisted 'is gun hand, like 'e was about to shoot 'er, so I fired first."

"But that's your job. You couldn't be blamed for that."

Gene passed his hand over his forehead. "Strange thing was, when 'e refused to drop the gun, 'e was smiling. As if he'd wanted me to fire. Suicide by cop, she'd called it once."

"Maybe he did," said Marcus solemnly. "If he wanted to die, he might have found it easier to get someone else to shoot him, than to do it himself."

"Don't know. He died in my arms. Said 'e was scared an' that 'e'd messed up an' was sorry. Then someone else connected wi' the blag - sister of one of the gang - jumped out of nowhere, grabbed Drake, an' put a gun to 'er 'ead. I challenged 'er. Drake pulled free, an' Jenette's gun went off. Bloody nearly took my 'ead away. I ducked to avoid 'er bullet, an' I pulled the trigger without meaning to. I hit Drake. No witnesses. Jenette legged it, an' when the rest of my team arrived, they found me standin' over Drake, smoking gun in my 'and."

"A pure accident," said Marcus gravely.

"Yeah, but who'll believe that after what they'd all heard me say to 'er?" Gene snarled. "If she doesn't come round, I'll go down, an' she - she - "

"While there's life, there's hope," said Marcus gently. "DI Drake's still alive, and the hospital people are taking the best possible care of her. You can stay here as long as you need to. Please God, DI Drake will wake up and be able to tell the police that you're innocent."

"Maybe she won't want to, after what I said. I doubted 'er," said Gene bitterly.

"She isn't vindictive." Marcus radiated a certainty that Gene wished he could share. "And it does sound as though she'd given you good reason to doubt her. But do you think that she might actually have believed what she was saying? People can get all sorts of funny ideas."

Gene gaped. He hadn't thought of it like that.

Marcus looked at his watch. "I'm sorry, Mr Hunt, but I'll have to go. I told Mum and Dad that I'd gone out for a drink with a workmate, and they'll be expecting me home soon. There's plenty of food in the larder and the fridge, and I'll be back in a few days with supplies. I'll tell them that I'm helping a friend do up his flat. Better think by the time I come back, whether there's anything you'd like me to bring you."

"Fags," Gene said instantly. "An' a bottle of whisky."

"Fags are in the cigarette box on the sideboard, and there's a bottle of single malt in the drinks cabinet," said Marcus, beaming. "Simon liked both. As I said, the place is soundproofed, so you can play the TV, the video, the radio or the music centre as loud as you like, so long as you don't make the floor shake. Just remember to draw the curtains before you put the lights on. There's a phone, but it can't make outgoing calls in case it's tapped. If I know you need to get out, I'll call you, say "Percy Mayfield, Ray Charles," and hang up."

"Come again?"

"_Hit the Road, Jack_. Mayfield wrote it, Charles recorded it."

"Oh. Ta."

Marcus rose. "Good night, Mr Hunt. I'll go to the hospital every few days to see how she's getting on. I'll see you soon. Don't come to the door."

Gene nodded and buried his face in his hands. A few seconds later he heard the front door closing, and he was alone again. Alone, but for the thoughts which he had managed to repress during the last three exhausting days. He knew that he would have far too much time to think now.

He wondered whether he would ever be able to close his eyes without seeing her fall, her blood staining her pretty blouse and the lining of her jacket. He doubted it. That image would haunt him, waking and sleeping, for the rest of his life. God knew how willingly he'd have taken a bullet for her, even when they had been so deeply divided. But it had been _his_ bullet that had pierced her tender flesh, had marred her perfect skin, had spilled her precious blood onto the indifferent flagstones. He had been able to cradle the dying man in his arms and offer words of comfort in his last moments, but for Bolly, the woman who meant so much to him, he could do nothing. He'd dared to accuse her of being cold, when he could not reach out a finger to help her. No wonder the others had thought him a callous murderer, when they'd found him standing over her, gun in hand. He should have knelt beside her, held her in his arms, begged her to stay with him, told her again and again that it would be all right, that she'd be wittering around CID again in no time. But he'd known that he had no right to touch her. Not now. Maybe never again.

Shaz had dropped to her knees and tried to stem the bleeding while Chris grabbed his radio and summoned an ambulance.

"Guv?" Ray had said, breaking through his numbness. Maybe he had spoken before, and Gene had not heard him.

"My bullet." Gene's voice had sounded flat and distant to his own ears. "Accident - "

"Guv, none of us saw what 'appened. There aren't any witnesses. You know what you said to 'er last night."

"Yes. I know."

"You'll be arrested if you stay 'ere. There's enough people who'll 'ate you for uncovering the rot at Fenchurch West. _We_ should be arresting you."

"I know."

"Go now." Ray's voice had been soft and urgent. "We're all busy seeing to the Boss. We didn't see you leave or where you went. Don't tell me where you're going." His voice had dropped lower. "Good luck, Guv."

At that moment the scream of the ambulance siren had rent the air and Ray had rushed out to guide the crew in. Gene had turned and walked away like an automaton without sense or feeling, away from everything that held any meaning in his life, away from his duty, from his command, from the woman whom he loved and who might be the worst traitor of all.

"_Bolly..._" he groaned softly. Now, at last, he had time to think it through._ Had _she betrayed him? He had been so sure that she was the one person whom he could trust. She had talked so much about connections, and he could have sworn that they had a connection, as deep and strong as anything he had ever known. Sure, when she had first walked into Luigi's he had wanted to shag her, but he knew perfectly well that his feelings for her had become infinitely more than that. He had come to value her as a colleague, even, sometimes, to respect her opinions. This whole miserable corruption business had brought them so close. They had been companions in arms, standing together against Mac. Not a word had been spoken between them - he had known that, after her last rejection, she would have to be the one to make the first move - but there had been so many deep glances, unspoken promises, moments when one would reach out to the other.

_I thought I'd lost you._ That was what she'd said when she'd found out that he wasn't siding with Mac. He remembered, with a sweetness which pierced him like pain, how she had reached out and touched his tie, a gesture so gentle, so intimate, that his heart had turned over. So many memories of them together claimed him suddenly. Carrying her into CID, that first day. Her laying her hand upon his astonished heart. Her punching him in the jaw. Her asking him what he would do with his last few seconds of life. Holding her as they awaited death in the dark vault. Carrying her out of the cold store. Her eyes flying open as he strove to revive her. Gazing at him during their date, just before the Price bomb. Drinking together in his office after Sally's murder. Delivering Alva's baby. Bugging Mac's office and working all night on the flipchart until they fell asleep. Teasing her about Jackie's insinuations until that bloody phone call had interrupted them. That unbearably glorious moment in Mitchell's kitchen when she'd come into his arms, clinging to him as though he were the only thing in the world. He hadn't known how to deal with it, of course, and he'd missed his chance. Talking in the cell after Riley's minions had attacked them both. Waiting in the darkened office for a traitor. Above all, drinking in her flat the night after they had unmasked Chris. There had been such sadness for him in her eyes, such understanding of his bitterness, rage and grief. _"You an' me, Bolly. You an' me." _That had been his toast. He could have sworn then, that they were unbreakable. So what had gone wrong? Why had she turned against him?

It had all started with that bloody tape. Until he had played it, he had had no cause to doubt her. What he had heard her say then, had chilled him to the core. He had all but begged her to explain, had even risked letting her know just what she meant to him, and she had spun him a story so ludicrous that it would have been laughable if so much hadn't been at stake. That was what had hurt. He had opened his heart to her, and she had stamped on it. But when she had stalked out of the office, tape in hand, he had never felt so alone in his life.

Was Marcus right? Had she really believed all that crap about coming from the future? He couldn't forget how hurt and broken she had looked when he rejected her story. As though she had entrusted her dearest secret to him like a precious jewel, and he had thrown it away like trash. If she had believed it, then she'd needed help. He should have been the one to help her. He should have seen that something was wrong, made her talk to some other shrink who could have analysed her, or whatever it was they did with headcases. But he had felt too lost and too bitter, too preoccupied with this goddam blag, to see that she'd needed him. He was needed, and he wasn't there. Then he'd been stupid enough to let that hell bitch Jenette turn him further against her. The thought of having laid so much as a finger on that slut made him feel sick now. Then that hideous quarrel, the night before the blag. He'd known that he was out of line, when he'd accused her of neglecting her daughter. He'd wanted to say something that would hurt her as deeply as she'd hurt him. She seemed so lost in fantasy that he'd wondered if her daughter even existed. But now the memory disgusted him. He had done many things in his time of which no man should be proud, but never before had he sunk so low as to use a woman's child against her. The look on her face had shown him the depth of her pain. When she'd slapped his face, he'd known that if she'd struck him twenty times as hard, he would have deserved it.

But she'd been proved right. The blag _had _happened in King Douglas Lane. It should have been the hour of his greatest triumph. He had saved her from Johnson. He knew that they would have patched things up somehow, and blamed it all on the stress of solving the case. He'd have had to go to her on his hands and knees and admit she was right, of course, but he'd have done that for her. They'd have found a way to talk to each other again. They should have been allowed the time for that. Now there might be no more time. _Oh, God..._

If she did believe that she came from the future, why had she thought it so necessary to destroy him, to get back there? Why had she been so fixated with the murdered PC Summers? She hadn't trusted the kid an inch when they'd been interviewing him, but after he disappeared, and especially after the body was found, she'd kept blathering on about him as though he were still alive. What he found strangest was, that she hadn't appeared at all surprised when Carnegie told them that Summers's body had been found. As though she had already known that the boy was dead. His every sense recoiled from the thought that she might have killed the lad, or known that he was dead and not reported it, but what else could he think?

But who in hell was the _other_ Summers she'd kept talking about? God knew, the woman hardly ever made much sense, but her conduct in this case had taken the whole barrel of biscuits. How had she known so much about the blag? He'd heard Johnson say that she couldn't be corrupted, and, strangely, he was convinced that the man was telling the truth. But if she wasn't involved in the blag, what had she been doing, gun in hand, hiding out in St Joseph's?

She hadn't betrayed him. So why had she wanted to bring him down? Why, on a tape that she had never expected him to hear, had she talked about fighting him?

His thoughts circled wearily in his head, around and around, like prisoners in an exercise yard.

**TBC**


	2. Whispers in the Wind

**Disclaimer: I don't own Ashes to Ashes: BBC, Monastic and Kudos are the lucky ones.**

**Many, many thanks to everyone who is reading this, and especially for all the reviews, alerts and faves. It really means so much. Please keep those lovely reviews coming in!**

She didn't get very far along the corridor before she collapsed. She was vaguely aware of medical staff lifting her and carrying her back to bed, before she lapsed into unconsciousness. When she awakened, a middle-aged man, with a plain, kindly face, was bending over her.

"Hello, Alex. I'm your surgeon, Samuel Gerard. I'm sorry you've been put through this. You'll be all right now."

"I - I _saw_ him - " she croaked.

Mr Gerard looked very stern. "Nurse Dawson should have warned you that the new drugs we had to use to combat your infection, have very strong hallucinatory side-effects. You received 50 ml, the maximum safe dose. After that you could have been seeing men from Mars."

_Is there life on Mars? No. Mustn't think of that. Mustn't._

"He should never have left you alone. He put you at terrible risk. I'll see to it that he's disciplined for that."

"Don't blame him...it wasn't his fault..." she murmured weakly. He held up a hand to stop her.

"No need to worry. You're safe now. I'm afraid that, as a precautionary measure, we'll have to sedate you for a while, until I'm satisfied that the drugs have cleared from your system. I've explained everything to your daughter. You'll be able to see her again soon."

"No...not sleep..." _I might go back._

"Don't be afraid, Alex, it's all for the best. You'll be back with us in a jiffy."

She tried to resist, but she was too feeble. She felt the needle go into her arm, and sank into oblivion again.

-oO0Oo-

_"Go home, Viv. You've been here twelve hours. Any longer and your kids'll forget what their daddy looks like."_

_"Someone should be with her."_

_"I'll take over now. Poirot's coming in the morning. Off you go. You must get some sleep before your next shift."_

_"Thanks, Mark."_

_"Any change?"_

_"No. There's only one person she needs, and he can't be here."_

_"Yeah. Get off home. Love to Anita and the kids. 'Night, Viv."_

_"'Night, Mark. Good night, Boss. Please wake up soon. We all need you."_

-oO0Oo-

The voices drifted through her mind during the moments before awakening. For a moment she thought that she would awaken back in 1982, with Viv or Mark bending over her. For the life of her she could not imagine why she felt disappointed as well as relieved, to open her eyes to find herself in her hospital room in 2008. The anguish in Viv's deep voice still reveberated in her mind.

"Mum? Are you OK?"

"Yes, darling. Still rather muzzy."

"Doctor Sam's been explaining everything to me. He did a blood test while you were under. He says that your body's clear of the drugs now, so he won't have to sedate you again. He's nice, I like him."

_If I'm clear now, why can I still hear them? _

"If you like him that much, do you want to become a doctor now?"

"Yuck. No, thanks. I don't think I could get used to all the blood. I'll stick to _Casualty_ and _Holby City_. But you've still got to rest a lot to get over it all, so I've got to be very careful not to tire you," Molly added. "Doctor Sam says you're to let me know if I do. Too much excitement could still be bad for you."

_Excitement. If only they knew about all my adventures in 1982. In my imagination._

Her recovery was slow. She had thought that she could never have enough of Molly's company, but she was still weak, and her lively daughter was sometimes too much for her. Evan came regularly, but she found it hard to talk to him now. Whatever else had been true or false about her coma, she was certain that what she had learned about the deaths of her parents, and his unwitting part in it, were true. What she could still feel for him was gratitude, for his care for her in the past, and now for Molly. Knowing that she was likely to stay in hospital for some time, she was anxious for Molly to keep some routine in her life, and after a fortnight insisted upon her going back to school, much to her daughter's disgust. Evan faithfully ferried Molly to and from school and stayed at Alex's house, cooking, cleaning, acting as her guardian, and, as Molly cheerfully reported, "spoiling me rotten".

With Molly no longer in constant attendance, Alex was lonely. She knew that, back in her imaginary 1982, CID kept a faithful watch over her. _I was part of a family there. The family I didn't have for so long. We were colleagues, but we were friends too. We all looked out for each other. Maybe that's why I imagined it the way I did. _Here, her colleagues signed a get-well card and sent flowers and chocolates, but apart from a brief, formal visit by her Super, none of them came to see her. She had been so absorbed in her work, for so long, that she had few friends. It saddened her to find that, despite having met so many people through her job, she was not close enough to anyone for them to want to take the time and trouble to visit her. The time passed slowly. Reading while lying down was awkward, and listening to her iPod gave her headaches, so she was thrown very much upon her own resources. It was natural that her thoughts should turn upon the lost world which had been her life for over a year. She told herself that she had to think of it again, to find closure and forget all about it. What she could not admit to herself was, that she treasured the times when she could tell over the memories, one by one, and hoarded them in her mind as greedily as precious jewels.

She became accustomed to hearing their voices in her dreams, like whispers in the wind. Once she awakened having heard Shaz sobbing quietly. Another time, it was Ray: _"I've been really hoping you'll teach me some more of that psychic stuff, Boss. It worked when we nailed Mitchell, didn't it? Maybe you'll make a psychologist of me yet." _ Another time, it was Shaz again: _"Please wake up, Ma'am. How can I get married without my guardian angel there?"_

Just once, she was awakened in the night by the TV screen springing into life, and saw Chris's face, taut with anguish. _"This is all my fault, Boss. The Guv was upset because he'd found out about me. If it hadn't been for that, he wouldn't have thought of doubting you. I know what he said that night, but I know he'd never have hurt you. You mean too much to him for that. Please come back. Please."_

"I can't, Chris. I'm sorry," she whispered, and the screen went blank.

She was no longer frightened by her visitations from 1982. She knew from Sam's reports, how anxious he had been that his return to consciousness might have destroyed his fantasy world and everyone in it. She found it oddly comforting to know that hers still existed, even if it was only in a corner of her imagination. At the same time she was saddened by her inability to give them a happy ending. She could not return. Would they continue waiting patiently by her side for ever? Or would her coma there deepen until she could no longer hear them? What would happen to Gene? She had not seen or heard him since that first eruption onto her TV screen, and she guessed that she must still be on the run, under suspicion of attempting to murder her.

Just once, she heard a voice which she recognised but couldn't identify, whispering,_ "Don't worry about Mr Hunt. He's safe. I'm looking after him." _She was immeasurably comforted by the knowledge that Gene was safe.

At first she tried not to think about him, but as one long, lonely day succeeded another, she yielded and let memories overwhelm her like a blizzard. Gene, saving her from Markham and carrying her into the station. The astonishing sensation of his heart beating beneath her hand. His hot, damp skin against hers as they awaited death in the vault. The weight of his body, warming hers, his lips achingly close as he brought her back to life after rescuing her from the cold store. The vision of him in her bed, turning over to look at her as he awakened. Shoving her under a table as Hollis opened fire. Shielding her younger self from the explosion, his hand in hers, her face buried in his coat. His weariness and despair after Sally's death. His face, swimming in and out of focus above her as he unstrapped her from the gurney. Admitting to her that he was playing along with Mac. Flinging her to the floor as Jeremy's bullet passed over their heads. His arms about her in Mitchell's kitchen. His rage and grief when Chris was unmasked as a traitor. Coming to her rescue yet again when first Summers, then Jenette, had held her at gunpoint. His stunned horror as he stood over her while she lost consciousness. Gene, hero and man.

At first she thought that she would never be able to forgive him for his terrible, bitter words during the last calamitous forty-eight hours before Operation Rose had driven them apart for ever, nor for his shouting and bawling in her comatose face as she lay in hospital in 1982. But as she thought it over during the long hours, she realised that there was much for which she could not blame him.

_I've hated him so much for not believing me, for not trusting me. How could he have thought that I'd turn against him, after everything we went through together over Mac and Chris? _

_But everyone he's ever loved or cared for, everyone he's trusted, has betrayed him at some time or another. His wife, Harry Woolf, Mac, Chris. He can't really have trusted Ray, ever since he found out that Ray is a mason. Even Sam. He knew that Sam betrayed him to try to get back home, so when I told him that I came from the future and was trying to get home, what could be more natural than that he should think that I'd betrayed him too?_

_But I couldn't do that, even to go home. There are some prices too high to pay. What sort of mother would I have been for Molly, if I'd destroyed people I loved to get back to her?_

_He was still reeling from the shock of Chris's betrayal. That must have hurt him more than anything else had ever done. He'd only just said that Chris was like a son to him. He said he felt adrift. No wonder he couldn't take it when I tried to tell him. _

_If only I'd tried to get him used to the idea that I came from the future. I could have introduced it into a conversation at Luigi's one night when we'd both had a bit too much to drink, so that I could laugh it off and blame it on the booze if he took it badly. Brought it up again a few more times until it became part of the landscape. Predict a few things and then be proved right, like Sam's bet on Red Rum. Then maybe he wouldn't have rejected it so completely. _

_It happened at the worst possible time and in the worst possible way. Of all my tapes, Summers had to leave THAT one for him, and he'd heard it before I had a chance to explain anything. I was caught out, unprepared for it, and I know I was absolutely incoherent. After all, what did I manage to tell him? That Sam, Summers and I were all from the future, that I'd been shot, and that I was fighting not to die because if I died I would never get home. _

_I mentioned Sam. That was the first unforgiveable thing. He never talks about Sam, it still hurts him too much. It must have seemed to him as though I was desecrating his friend's memory. _

_I said Summers had shot his younger self and that he was behind Operation Rose. But the only Summers Gene knew, was that poor young copper who was killed. If only I'd thought to tell him that the man I was talking about, was the one he knew as Boris Johnson. I should have told him that Johnson was behind Operation Rose, that he had murdered PC Summers and tried to frame me, that he'd been stalking me, and that he was trying to drive us apart. Gene would have been able to understand that much, and the tape... I should have made him listen to the rest of the tape. There would have been fallout from that. I'd have had to admit something of what I felt for him - God knows, still feel. But at least we might not have quarrelled. _

_But if we hadn't, would I be back here now?_

_If only he hadn't used Molly against me. That's what hurts most. But he thought I'd used Sam against him, and if he'd marked me down as a fantasist, he probably thought my daughter only existed in my imagination._

_"Talk to me, Alex, if I mean anything to you at all." God, how vulnerable he must have felt, to make an admission like that. He trusted me enough to open his heart to me, and it seemed to him as though I stamped all over it. And I was too desperate to recognise the value of the gift he was offering me._

_"I really thought, you an' me - I thought we were the ones, we had a connection." Oh, we did, Gene, we did. We still do. You were my reality. But where are you now? What's happening to you?_

_Keep safe, Gene. For me._

-oO0Oo-

Samuel Gerard, seeing her loneliness, came to talk to her as often as his work allowed. She learned that he was a widower with a daughter of Molly's age.

"Once you're safely out of here, I'll have to invite you and Molly to tea. She'll get on like a house on fire with my Diana. She's a bright girl, and very brave. You should be proud of her."

Alex smiled. "I am."

"Good. That's a date."

_...Wear something slutty?..._

"Samuel, I'd like to ask you to do something for me, so long as it doesn't breach patient confidentiality."

"I will if I can. What is it?"

Alex hesitated. "Just when I came out of my coma, the patient in the room next door died. I saw the nurses wheeling him away with his face covered. It - it seemed so unfair that someone should die just as I came back to life. I'd like to say a prayer for him. Could you find out his name for me?"

He nodded. "As it happens, I know it anyway. He was one of my patients, and he had been a Detective Inspector, too. He was an Irishman, name of Martin Summers."

_"Summers?"_ Alex gasped faintly.

"Yes. He was fifty-six. He'd smoked like a factory chimney for years, but he'd sworn off the fags and had come in for a lung transplant. There was just a chance that it might have worked, but unfortunately it didn't. A very bitter, angry man. He felt that life had dealt him a bad hand."

"It did," Alex said unsteadily. "I knew him - a long time ago. He had a lot of tragedy in his life, but much of it was of his own making."

"The eighty-a-day habit didn't help," said Gerard drily. "You say you knew him? That's a coincidence. He was in a coma for several weeks before the end, but just before he died, one of the nurses heard him say _Alex._ You'd just been admitted then, so how could he have known you were here?"

"It's quite possible for a coma patient to be aware of their surroundings," Alex said carefully. "I can testify to that. While I was in my coma, I was sometimes aware of medics tending me and Molly talking to me."

"Is that so?" said Gerard, surprised.

"Yes. Maybe he heard the doctors talking about me and responded to the stimulus."

"Maybe." His pager buzzed. "Sorry, Alex, I'll have to go. See you soon."

He rushed away, leaving Alex in turmoil.

_Summers was real. He was a patient in this hospital. We were both in comas at the same time. He died just before I came round. Just at the time Gene shot him in 1982. He died at the same time in both worlds. _

_I'll swear I never met him in my life. Never knew he existed. I got messages from the hospital from time to time while I was in my coma, but none of them mentioned him. So how can I possibly have imagined him in 1982? _

_Unless he and I shared the same hallucination? But which of us created this imaginary world, and which of us entered it afterwards?_

_He was in a coma here long before I was admitted. Samuel said so. But unless he'd heard about Sam Tyler, how could he have created this world? It was all mine, mine! _

_Sam's case had been kept strictly confidential. Only a very few people knew about his hallucinations. Ruth Tyler, his counsellor, his Super, a couple of other ranking officers at the GMP, me, Molly..._

_Summers can't have known. There was no reason for him to know. _

_It was _my_ world! Not his! It still exists! I can still hear them!_

_But how could another real person, whom I never knew, enter it?_

_Unless it was _all_ real?_

_Impossible. _

_But then everything about this is impossible._

-oO0Oo-

_"Well, Boss." _Chris again. _"It's been three weeks now, and we've all run out of things to say days ago, but Shaz thinks you might hear us if we read to you. She found this copy of "The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe" in your flat, so here goes, and I hope you like it...."_

-oO0Oo-

Under usual circumstances, she would have argued bitterly against being kept in hospital for so long, but she knew that, once she was allowed to return home, she would want to get back to normal as soon as possible, and that if she was not fully fit, she could overtire herself. The doctors would have let her leave sooner if she had had someone who could look after her when she returned home. She could not allow Evan to remain with her full time for an indefinite period. She knew that he had already lost work, and clients, while looking after Molly. She dared not risk being taken ill and giving Molly the responsibility of looking after her.

But if she had been honest with herself, she would have admitted that she regarded the hospital as a refuge from a world which she did not yet feel ready to face. Evan had told her that Layton had been arrested a few days after the shooting, so she knew she had nothing to fear from going back into the world. But since awakening from her coma, she had not felt fully alive, as though part of her soul was missing.

_The part that's still in 1982, with them. With him._

-oO0Oo-

The first thing she bought after she came home from hospital, was a white jacket.

A tailored, double-breasted jacket, which would go with the suits she had always worn. Not a leather jacket such as she had worn in the 1980s, although she vowed to herself to find one eventually, even if she had to advertise for it and ransack every retro clothes shop in the land.

She paired it with brightly coloured blouses, a contrast to the white shirts she had always worn.

A little later, she added boot-cut black trousers - not jeans - and low-heeled black boots.

As her hair grew, she had it cut in a fringe, explaining that it hid the scar of her bullet wound, and wore it loose about her shoulders.

Molly greeted every new difference in her mother's appearance with a raised eyebrow, but said nothing. Alex could feel her daughter silently assessing her for personality changes resulting from the trauma of the shooting. _Who's meant to be the psychologist around here?_

"I just thought it was time for a change, darling. One thing I've realised from all this is that we only get one go at life. No point in losing out."

"Uh-huh," said Molly guardedly. "Suits you."

Alex knew that her own voice sounded unconvincing, even to her own ears.

_I have had another go at life, but I had to lose it to return to this life._

Personally she thought that her new image struck a good balance between the 2008 Alex she had been, and the 1982 Alex she would never be again.

_I'll never be the same. I thought I could forget all about it when I woke up, but it's changed me for ever. I've had a whole other life that nobody can ever know about, even Molly. A second existence I'll carry inside me, all my days. All the people I knew and loved and hated there. I have to live for them all now._

_I used to think that Sam killed himself because he was weak. That he gave up on life. I know now how he felt. 1973 was more important to him. It was where he felt alive. Did he hear them screaming to him from the railway tunnel, after he woke up from his coma? _

_I haven't felt alive, truly alive, since I woke up. I'm only on the fringes of life. If it wasn't for Molly, I'd wish that I hadn't come back._

_I can still hear them calling to me._

_I have changed._

-oO0Oo-

_"You'll have to wake up, Boss." _Poirot's voice. _"We're all spending so much time here with you, nobody's training for the Metropolitan Police League Trophy. We're relying on you to come and wave a scarf for us on the touchline..."_

_They won't stand a chance this year. Gene's their best striker, and he can't be with them._

_Oh, Gene..._

-oO0Oo-

Samuel Gerard, as good as his word, invited Alex and Molly to tea a few weeks after her release from hospital. His house was spacious, elegant, and tastefully furnished, and the meal was delicious. As he had predicted, Molly and his daughter Diana took to each other at once, and after tea Diana dragged Molly off to her room for what Alex recognised as a teenage exchange of confidences from which adults were eternally barred. Teens were a society as secret as the Masons.

_The Masons._

Gerard poured wine for himself and Alex, and they sat in wicker chairs gazing out over the broad expanse of the garden.

"Thank you for inviting us." Alex felt unaccountably shy.

"I'm glad you could come. It means so much to me to see Diana so happy. It's been a lonely life for her since her mother died. It's almost three years now. Cancer." He rubbed his eyes and looked away. "It's the hardest thing. Dedicating your life to saving lives and ending pain, but being unable to save someone you love."

"I know. I once failed to save my - two people very dear to me. I got a tipoff that their car had been booby trapped by a bomber, but I was too late to save them."

He nodded in sympathy and put his hand over hers. Alex suddenly felt uncomfortable.

"How lovely your garden is," she said, wanting to change the subject.

"Thanks, but I can't claim the credit. Vera used to do all the gardening. Since she died, I've hired someone to do it. Diana does a bit. Vera loved this garden so much, we want to keep it as she knew it." He sighed impatiently. "This isn't a home now, it's just a place where people live. It needs more than Diana and I can give it. It needs to have a family here again."

Alex didn't reply. _Are you thinking what I think you're thinking?_ The silence lasted some time, and when it was broken, it was with him asking about Molly's schooling. They drifted into safe, neutral subjects until it was time for Alex and Molly to leave.

As he helped her on with her jacket, Gerard said quietly, "Thanks so much for coming, Alex. It means a lot to Diana and me."

"Thank you too. We've enjoyed it."

"Will you let me invite you out to dinner sometime soon?"

She was suddenly aware of both the little girls watching them, bright-eyed and secretive.

"Yes. Yes, I will. Thank you very much."

All the way home, she had to contend with Molly's excited chatter, but when Molly had gone to bed and she had settled down with a glass of wine, she was able to start thinking it through.

_I'm being offered the chance of a new start. A home, another little girl who needs a mother, someone who'll look after Molly and me. _

_A chance to be in the world again, properly, not just at the edges, looking in. _

_The logical thing to do. But is it what I want?_

**TBC**


	3. Reconstruction

**Disclaimer: BBC, Monastic and Kudos own Ashes to Ashes. I don't.**

**Thank you again to everyone who is reading this story and especially to all my kind reviewers, both here and elsewhere. Please keep them rolling in, your feedback makes my week!**

**A/N: Before finalising this and succeeding chapters, I visited St-Dunstan-in-the East, which features as St Joseph's in Series 2 Episode 8. See my profile for further details about this lovely ruined church and garden and the use I've made of them in this story.**

He awakened in Alex's bed, holding her soft body in his arms as she slept, her head pillowed on his chest. Her skin was like living silk against his, her hair brushed his nostrils, and her breath was warm upon his body.

He breathed deeply. A dream. The shooting, her coma, his flight. It had all been a dream. He had her safe, and anyone who tried to hurt her would have to come straight through him. He would never let anything harm her again.

She stirred, mumbling sleepily, and gazed up at him, her hazel eyes dark with desire. She reached up to caress his rough cheek, then took his face between her hands and kissed him passionately. Her lips were like rose petals. He had never been so happy in his life. He tried to draw her closer, but she laughed, slipped from his arms, and got out of bed.

"Where you goin', Bols?"

"Wait there." She laughed again and vanished from the room. He sank back onto the pillows, savouring his contentment. _Probably gone to the loo. She'll be back in a minute. I'll be scared as a teenager now, every time she's out of my sight._

She came back into the room fully dressed, just as she had been that morning, gun in hand.

"I'm going home now, Gene, and you can't stop me." She smiled sweetly. "But to get home, I have to bring you down." She levelled the gun at him. It was pure reflex for him to snatch his gun from the bedside table and point it at her.

"Drop it! I will shoot!" he shouted.

She smiled again. "I know." It was not her voice. It was Johnson's. As he watched, she turned into Jenette, the bottle blonde hair, the black jacket and leggings, the hideously beautiful face. "Where's me bleedin' money?" she shrieked, and it was Jenette's voice. He fired, and as she fell, she turned back into Alex, her blood staining her pretty blouse and the lining of her jacket. Flinging his gun from him like an unclean thing, he leapt from the bed and dropped to his knees beside her, cradling her in his arms.

"I messed up," she rasped. "Sorry." It was Johnson's voice again. Not hers. "I'm - scared." Her eyes closed and her head lolled to one side.

"Bolly!" He shook her. "BOLLY! _BOLLY_!" Her inert body slipped from his grasp and vanished into nothingness.

_"BOLLY!"_

His eyes snapped open and he sat up in bed. _"Jesus - "_

His bedroom. Marcus's flat. A nightmare. And he had awakened to the living nightmare that he had to endure, every day and every night.

He wouldn't sleep again tonight. _Time to go for another walk, Genie boy._

-o0O0o-

For the first few days after his arrival, he had done little but eat and sleep while he let his body recuperate from its ordeal. During that time, Marcus told him, the papers and TV were still full of the St Joseph's Gardens shootings and the search for the missing DCI, but since then it had become old news, relegated to the inside pages whenever it was mentioned at all.

It had only taken a few days before Gene had started to feel himself going slowly but steadily stir-crazy. For a fit, active man, accustomed to charging around the city in his Quattro to nail criminal scum, the boredom of being trapped inside four walls day after day was almost intolerable. Frequently, only the knowledge that he would be in a far worse prison if he were caught, had prevented him from rushing out into the street.

Marcus was good as his word, visiting every few days with fresh supplies of food and drink. The one thing he could not bring, was the one piece of news that Gene was desperate to hear. Each time, when he walked into the flat and Gene's haunted eyes mutely asked him for news, he said sadly, "I went to the hospital today. I'm sorry, Mr Hunt, there's still no change. But the nurses say that she's bound to wake up soon." He had at least been able to reassure Gene that Alex did not want for company. The team were taking turns to sit with her and talk to her, and someone was always there when Marcus visited. "Your young WPC was with her today," he would say, or "DC Skelton was sitting with her. He looked very upset," or "DC Carling was there, but I couldn't talk to him. He was too embarrassed to say anything to me. I think he remembers that night in Simon's club." What he didn't tell Gene, was that on the one occasion when he had been left alone with Alex, he had murmured in her ear, "Don't worry about Mr Hunt. He's safe. I'm looking after him." He had no way of knowing whether Alex had heard him, but he had been comforted by the thought that she might have done.

So that his frequent visits would not arouse suspicion among the neighbours, he made a point of bringing some DIY materials every time - shelving and brackets, tiles and grout, a power drill, a hammer, nails and screws. "So that it looks as if I'm doing up the flat to sell it," he said cheerily. Gene had initially hoped that he might be able to work off some of his desperate frustration by bashing a few nails into planks of wood, but he knew his limitations. The last DIY he had essayed was over twenty years ago, when the Missus had nagged him into putting up a set of shelves which had fallen off the wall four days later and demolished her best tea service. He could not afford to risk wrecking the flat. But Marcus, noting his unease, had on his third visit left him a door key.

"I don't want you to feel you're a prisoner here, Mr Hunt, but if you do go out, please be careful."

It had been a Godsend. In the middle of the night, when he could not sleep, he went out and walked the lonely streets. In this quiet residential area, there were few people to observe the tall, black-coated figure, his head down and his hands in his pockets, who strode along, his coat billowing about him. Anyone did see him, probably took him for a night shift worker heading for home. He would trudge along for hours, working off his pent-up energy, thinking gloomy thoughts. Sometimes he thought he saw Sam or Alex walking ahead of him, but whenever he tried to catch up, they would disappear. After a while, he knew better than to get too close. Often he stayed out until the first rays of dawn sent the Lion back to his den. Hiding from the light, as though he were a vampire.

By day, he often slept to alleviate the long hours of inactivity. He kept the flat meticulously clean, not because he enjoyed housework - he detested it - but because it was something to do, and because, if he had to leave in a hurry, he wanted to leave as little evidence as possible of his presence. He knew that, if Forensics got into the place, they would find his fingerprints all over it, but if he could leave it looking unoccupied, aside from Marcus's heap of incipient home improvements, there was a chance that it might not be searched. He was deeply aware that Marcus was taking one hell of a risk for him, and he did not want any carelessness on his part to get the lad into trouble. Marcus had brought some of his old clothes, which nearly fitted Gene's taller, heavier frame, so he wore them around the flat and left his suit and shirt in the wardrobe. When he got out of here at last, he wanted to present a decent figure to the world, which he wouldn't if his only good clothes had been worn to rags by bloody hoovering and washing up.

He never missed a news bulletin, either on radio or TV. Marcus brought him the occasional newspaper and TV journal, and he made a comprehensive list of all the news programmes, in the order throughout the day, and listened to them all. It drove him half mad to hear the same items, over and over again, but he kept listening, just in case he heard the one piece of news he needed to hear. Or the one he dreaded to hear.

He watched the TV to use up time, but there seemed to be something wrong with it. During a programme, the screen would suddenly go blank, and then all he could see was Alex falling. He would hit the top of the TV, shout at it, press the remote buttons, and then suddenly he was back with _Coronation Street_ or _High Plains Drifter_, as though nothing had happened. At times like this he thought he must be going as mad as Bolly. She had talked once about getting messages from home through her TV. Of course she had been pissed when she said it, and he didn't even have that excuse. The temptation to get drunk was frequently overwhelming, but his sense of self-preservation told him that if he got plastered, he wouldn't be in any fit state to lam if the lynch mob were on the way. Besides, although Marcus was being unbelievably generous, he couldn't expect the kid to keep providing bottles of the best single malt on a mechanic's salary. So he rationed himself to a single, unbelievably delicious sip a day, schooling himself to put the bottle away without taking any more. It was one of the hardest things about his imprisonment. Fortunately, he had found hundreds of cigarettes, almost certainly smuggled goods, in the sideboard, and he chainsmoked virtually every waking moment.

He had been living in the flat for just over four weeks when Marcus, unexpectedly, visited on a Saturday afternoon. He usually came on weekdays after work, so the sound of a key in the lock on a Saturday was enough to make Gene leap to his feet and grab his gun, only to relax as Marcus sheepishly came into view.

"Sorry to disturb you, Mr Hunt. I can't stay long, I'm off to a football match with friends. I just came to tell you, I read in this morning's paper that tonight's _Police 5_ will feature a reconstruction of the shooting, of - you know - "

"Of me shooting 'er," Gene finished heavily. "Thanks. Yeah, I'd better take a look. Thanks for letting me know. Off and enjoy your match, son. Who's playin'?"

"Spurs versus Villa."

"Ah." Gene still regarded any team other than City as the scum of the earth. Still, at least Marcus wasn't watching United. "Which do you support?"

"Spurs." Marcus was glowing with enthusiasm. "We'll make mincemeat of them."

"Just so long as some Villa bastard doesn't make mincemeat out of _you_," said Gene drily. "Off you go, an' don't let any football 'ooligans get at you."

"I won't, Mr Hunt, don't you worry. I'll see you in a few days."

_Great_, Gene thought as the door closed behind Marcus. _Something else to worry about. _Memories of his last disastrous appearance on _Police 5_ still haunted him, or had done until recently. Right now he had more serious anxieties than having made a complete twat of himself on television. _One bright spark on the horizon: if they've still got the same shit-faced actor playing me as they had last time, nobody's likely to recognise me from the reconstruction._

-o0O0o-

"On Wednesday 10 November at 11.00 am, a terrible tragedy took place in the City of London," Shaw Taylor intoned. "A daring gang of criminals attempted to raid a security van, carrying a load of bullion, which had been diverted from its normal route by a fire in the High Street, into a quiet side street, King Douglas Lane. The Metropolitan Police attended the scene and foiled the robbery, but in the confusion a senior police officer was shot and seriously wounded." As he spoke, the screen showed a reconstruction of the robbery, the arrival of Gene and his forces and the resulting melée.

_No mention of corrupt cops, I see, _Gene thought grimly. _They're sweeping that under the carpet. _

An actor in a dark coat, obviously playing Johnson, was seen running away and entering St Joseph's, and a dark-haired actress, obviously playing Alex, pursued him. "One of the ringleaders tried to get away in the confusion and took refuge in St Joseph's Gardens," Taylor's voiceover continued. "Detective Inspector Alex Drake gave chase. What happened then is unclear, but less than five minutes later three of her colleagues entered the gardens and found the suspect dead and Detective Inspector Drake wounded in the stomach. Her superior officer, Detective Chief Inspector Gene Hunt, was standing over her, smoking gun in hand." The scene changed to show, first the actor playing Johnson, and then the actress playing Alex, both lying on the ground covered in blood. The camera moved upwards to show the actor playing Gene - _the same shit-face as last time_, Gene noted - standing over her, his gun smoking, with a villainous look on his face. "DI Drake remains in a critical condition in hospital. She is in a deep coma and it is not known when, if ever, she will regain consciousness, or if she will ever be able to tell the police the truth of what happened that morning."

_If ever? Oh, God. Bolly._

The screen changed to show Shaw Taylor in the studio, with a man whom Gene did not know sitting beside him. "With me tonight is acting Detective Chief Inspector Richard Ward, the officer in charge of the investigation," Taylor continued. "A very puzzling case, DCI Ward."

"Yes, indeed," DCI Ward replied, "and for more than one reason. Two people were found lying in St Joseph's Gardens, one dead, the other wounded. Two pistols were lying nearby, but neither had been fired. Both the victims had been shot by bullets from a pistol corresponding to that issued to DCI Hunt." A picture of a gun like Gene's flashed onto the screen as he spoke, then the camera returned to Taylor and Ward. "He and DI Drake are known to have clashed on the handling of this case, and witnesses have stated that, on the night before the shooting, he had threatened to kill her. DCI Hunt walked away from St Joseph's Gardens while his colleagues and paramedics were attending to DI Drake, and has not been seen since." A photograph of Gene flashed onto the screen.

"He is armed and may be dangerous," Taylor resumed. "The police urgently need to find him, and for that we need _your_ help." The screen showed a black overcoat like Gene's. "Were you near St Joseph's Gardens just after 11.00am on 10 November? Did you hear gunshots? Did you see a tall, fair-haired man in a black overcoat walking away from the area? Did you see where he went? Have you seen him at any time since then?"

_Shit. Better not go for a walk tonight. Or any time for the next few weeks._

"But, DCI Ward, there is another puzzling aspect to this case, isn't there?" Taylor continued.

"Yes," Ward replied. "The man who was killed in St Joseph's Gardens was a member of the gang who attempted to rob the bullion van." The screen showed a police photofit of Johnson, while Ward continued, "Eyewitnesses have confirmed that he shot both the security guards. But we don't know who he is. The other members of the gang, when questioned, have stated that he gave his name to them as Detective Inspector Boris Johnson, but after his death, officers discovered that he had been lodging in a one-room flat in East London, where they found a warrant card, driving licence and other official documents in the name of Detective Inspector Martin Summers of the Metropolitan Police. But there has never been a detective of either name with the Met, and the only Martin Summers with the force was a young police constable who was murdered last month, shortly before the robbery, and whose death is still under investigation. It is possible that our mystery man was attempting to assume the identity of PC Summers, although his reasons for doing so are not yet known. They also found a huge quantity of papers, photographs and press cuttings about DI Drake and DCI Hunt. He appeared to have been obsessed with DI Drake and may have been stalking her."

_Summers. Bolly kept talking about the other Summers. She said he left me the tape and was trying to drive a wedge between us. He was paying bloody Jenette. He must have been the one Bolly wanted to stop. Did he know she had this daft idea about coming from the future, and he conned her into thinking he did too? Is that why she thought he might be able to help her? Why did she tell me his name was Boris Johnson? Maybe she didn't know then that he was using the name Summers. But he must have told her he was a copper, that was what she told me in the Gardens._

_Stalking. All those flowers left on her desk, she thought I'd left one of them. Those phone calls at Luigi's. Maybe he phoned her at her flat as well. But if he was stalking her, why didn't she tell me? I'd have seen him off faster than the 43 bus to Barnet. Maybe she didn't want me to warn him off. But why not? Because she didn't want me to spoil her chances of getting back to the bloody future? Or because she didn't want me to stop the heist? No - she _did_ give_ _me the chance to stop it. _

Amid the turmoil of his thoughts, he barely noticed the end of the programme, with an appeal for information on the identity of the mystery robber.

_She knew about the heist, knew he was a corrupt cop, knew he was involved. He'd told her about it, tried to cut her in, but she didn't accept. When I found them in the Gardens, he was saying she couldn't be corrupted. Is that why he was going to kill her? She'd tried to warn me, but I was too angry and suspicious to trust her._

_Was he the one who got at Chris? Because he'd tried Bolly first and she turned him down? If only I could ask Chris. May never get the chance to talk to him again._

_How did PC Summers fit into all this? She was suspicious of him. She must have already known that Johnson was using the name Summers, and thought they were connected. Bloody hell, now I'm going on about connections too. But why wasn't she surprised when we told her PC Summers was dead? _

_So many questions, and now that reconstruction with my mugshot has painted my supposed villainy all over London Weekend, I've got less chance than ever of getting out of here to find out the truth - or of proving it was an accident._

_Oh, Bolly, wake up. Please wake up. I've never needed you so much. Please._

_My love._

_Can't call you that now. Never did when I had the chance. Never can again._

_I shot you._

-oO0Oo-

In his time as desk sergeant, Viv had seen almost every form of life pass though the swing doors of Fenchurch East. Everything from drunks and vagrants to gangsters, murderers and Lord Scarman. But even he was taken aback by the shortish, stoutish, tweedy lady with an artist's portfolio under her arm who marched into the station at 9.30 on Monday morning and fixed him with a purposeful glare which reminded him of a teacher who had routinely terrified the daylights out of him when he was eight years old.

"Err, good morning, ma'am. How can I help you?" He had an uncomfortable feeling that she was about to order him to do fifty lines.

"I want to see Inspector Ward!"

"I'll go and see if he's free, ma'am. May I ask what it's about?"

The woman was bristling with indignation. "I want to know why the reconstruction on _Police 5_ took no account of the statement I gave to the police the day after the shooting!"

"What is it, Sergeant?"

She rounded on the newcomer. "I've come to see you! How dare you go on hounding that poor man? It was a complete accident!"

Acting DCI Richard Ward instinctively took a step backwards before getting a grip on himself. "I'm sorry, madam, I don't know what you're referring to - "

"The reconstruction in _Police 5_ on Saturday!" She was magnificently angry. "I was just telling your sergeant here. It took no account of my witness statement. They left out the other woman!"

"What other woman? Do you mean to say that you _witnessed_ the shooting in St Joseph's Gardens?"

"Of course!" she snapped. "I gave a statement to the police the very next day, and you've completely ignored it!"

He shook his head. "I haven't seen it. Carling!" he barked over his shoulder to a tall, curly-haired man with a big moustache, who stood in the corridor staring at the two of them. "Get the file for the St Joseph's Gardens shootings from my desk and bring it to Interview Room 1, and get Granger to bring some tea. Would you care to come this way, madam?" he added to the woman, but she barely noticed him. The tall man had not moved, and was gazing at her as though she were the answer to his prayers. It was a long time since any man had looked at her like that, and it made her feel quite frivolous.

-oO0Oo-

They were sitting in the interview room, with tea and enough pink wafers and Garibaldis to last them through a siege. Ward turned over the pages of the file as he spoke.

"This is Acting Detective Inspector Carling. I understand you already know me from my appearance on TV, Mrs - "

"Todd. _Miss_ Susan Todd."

"Well, Miss Todd, I have the case file here, and there is definitely no statement from you on it. Can you please tell me when and where you gave it?"

"Of course! I went to the police station the day after the shooting and told them everything."

"This station?"

"No, the one in King William Street. That's nearest to the scene of the shooting, so I thought it was the correct thing to do."

Ward and Ray exchanged a glance. "_Fenchurch West_", Ray muttered.

"Normally it would be," Ward said carefully. "But for a number of reasons, the investigation into this incident is being carried out here. Do you know the name of the officer to whom you gave your statement?"

"Yes, his name was Chapman. I heard one of his colleagues call him Jim. Such a nice young fellow."

Ward and Ray exchanged another glance. "Carnegie's man," Ray growled. "He'll have a grudge against the Guv."

"I beg your pardon?"

Ward collected himself. "Would you be able to identify him for us, if necessary?"

"Certainly," she said briskly. "I have a very good memory for faces."

"Well, as I said, your statement isn't on the file, and it seems likely that Detective Constable Chapman may have - er - mislaid it."

"Why?"

Ward looked cornered. "Well, as it happens, he, along with several other officers at that station, are currently under suspension and facing disciplinary action due to, um, poor administration of police records." Ray snorted, but, warned by a look from Ward, said nothing. "This may be another example. That's why it would be immensely helpful if you would identify him for us. In the meantime, would you mind giving us your statement again?"

"Certainly! That's why I'm here. Let me explain from the beginning, Mr Ward. I'm an illustrator. The Society of the Friends of St Joseph's had asked me to do a drawing of the church tower for their new appeal leaflet. They're launching the appeal in February, and the printer had requested the artwork as soon as possible, as he expected to be busy in the run-up to Christmas. I've done artwork for the Society before, Christmas cards and a calendar. I knew that I could get the angle on the tower that I wanted from St Joseph's House, preferably the third floor."

Ward nodded. St Joseph's House was a large office block which backed onto St Joseph's Alley, which ran alongside the Gardens.

"But it's empty at the moment."

"It is, but there's a caretaker. I contacted him and gave him my references from the Society, and he agreed to give me access on the morning of 10 November. When I got there at 10.30, he told me that he had a hospital appointment in an hour. He'd been given a late cancellation, it would save him waiting at least two months. He offered that, if I didn't mind being locked up alone in the building, he would give me a key to let myself out when I'd finished my work, and I could post it through the letterbox when I left. I agreed, as I was about to leave the country for four weeks, and I didn't want to risk missing the printer's deadline." She lifted her portfolio onto the table and extracted a large sheet of art paper. "Luckily I drew a copy of this before giving the original to your Jim Chapman. I thought that, if I had to appear as a witness in court, I'd better have a reference set so that I could mug it up before being cross-examined. This is a plan of the third floor of the building, on the side that looks out over St Joseph's, with a plan of the gardens as I could see them from there. I decided to do my drawing from the window of this office, Room 303. I must have been at work for about half an hour when I heard a lot of commotion from the road beyond the gardens, tyres screeching, men shouting, loud bangs - I realise now that they must have been gunshots and that what I heard was the foiled robbery on the bullion van. I couldn't see anything because of the trees and the church ruins being in the way. A couple of minutes later I saw a man in a black coat coming through the arch, here. He must have come in by the gate from King Douglas Lane. He had a gun in his hand."

"Could you describe him, please?"

"He was tall, thin, light brown hair, a thin face, beaky nose, wearing a smart dark suit under the coat, with black gloves. In his mid-fifties, I'd say. The one whose name you don't know. You showed his photofit in the programme. I did a drawing of him from memory, directly after the incident." She produced a second sheet from her portfolio, and a small, vivid sketch of the unknown robber almost leapt off the page. "He concealed himself, there" - she pointed to the plan - "and a few moments later a young woman came through the arch. She was carrying a gun too. That surprised me, you don't expect it from a pretty young thing like that. I didn't know that she was a detective until I saw the programme. She was tall, with dark hair cut in a fringe, wearing high-heeled boots, tight jeans and a white jacket. Very beautiful." She pointed to a sketch of Alex on the second page, and Ward nodded. "She passed in front of where the man was hiding, and he stepped out, put his gun in her back, grabbed her wrist and twisted it until she dropped the gun, then let her go and pointed his gun at her. I thought of calling the police, but I remembered that the caretaker had said that the phones had been disconnected when the last tenants moved out. I opened the window and was about to shout to him that I could see what he was doing, but he was talking to the girl and was getting very agitated. I didn't want to panic him into shooting. It was clear that they knew each other."

"Didn't it occur to you that he might have shot at you? You were taking a risk."

"Not much of a risk, Inspector. I had placed myself against the wall and could have ducked out of sight. In any case I wasn't in nearly so much danger as that girl."

"Could you hear what they were saying?"

"Not all of it. I heard her saying something about putting things right and him wanting them to get caught, and he shouted "I believed, they took that away from me." I thought he must be some crazy Irish evangelist. He was waving his gun at her, and I was about to risk calling out, but then I realised that there was another man standing in the arch behind them - here." She pointed to the plan again. "I don't know how long he'd been there, I'd been concentrating on the other two. He was dressed much like the other man, black coat and gloves, dark suit, but he was taller and broader, fair-haired, and he had a Northern accent. The man you're looking for." She pointed to a small sketch of Gene on the second page. "He had a gun too, and he pointed it at the other man, shouted "Police!" and told him to drop his gun, but he didn't move. The policeman said, very clearly, "I will shoot." The other man twisted his gun in his hand, still pointing it at the girl, and the policeman shot him. I have no doubt at all that he fired because her life was in danger. She might have been killed if he had not acted."

"What happened then?"

"The other man dropped like a stone. There was a bloodstain on his shirt, it was clear that he was dying. It was frightful. The policeman said something to the girl, again I realised that they knew each other, then he knelt beside him and cradled him in his arms. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but he was comforting that man as he died. The girl backed away - she looked dazed, poor thing - and that was when the second woman rushed in through the arch." She pointed to the plan again.

"Yes, you mentioned a second woman earlier."

"It's strange, the two men were dressed almost alike, but this girl was like a negative image of the other one, black leather jacket and leggings, and blonde. Beautiful, but her face was so contorted with hate - I might almost say that she was _vilely_ beautiful." She turned to a sketch on the other page.

Ray nodded excitedly. "Yeah - "

"Do you know who she is, then?"

"Maybe, ma'am, but please don't let me interrupt you."

"She had a gun too. She fired into the air, then grabbed the girl in white and held her gun to her face. She had a very coarse Irish accent, and was shrieking like a harpy, "Where's my bleeding money?" Excuse my language, I'm quoting her."

Ward smiled faintly. "Of course."

"The policeman tried to reason with her. He had his back to me, but I could hear his voice very clearly. He called her Janet and said she was on her own, that she'd tried to come between them and it was a lie. She just held the dark girl tighter, and he pointed his gun at her and said, "Let her go." But then the dark girl seemed to panic, she screamed something, I couldn't hear what, and pushed the blonde girl's gun arm aside. The gun went off, and the policeman had to duck to avoid the bullet. It probably landed somewhere in the bushes behind him. But the tragic thing is that, as he ducked, his gun went off, his bullet hit the dark girl in the stomach, and she fell. It was a complete accident. The girl in black bolted. Poor fellow, he was obviously horrified. He approached her, gun in hand, as she lay there, and then three other people rushed up. I thought I must be going mad, one of them looked just like a bride - "

"You were right," Ward said gravely. "WPC Granger is getting married soon. Her fiancé played a crucial part in apprehending the robbers. She had a dress fitting that morning and took a police radio with her, When she heard that he was in danger, she came straight to his rescue. She saved his life."

"Good girl," said Miss Todd approvingly. "I hope they'll be very happy. Anyway, one of the men had a radio and I realised that he was summoning an ambulance. Otherwise I'd have got out of the building and tried to find a phone. The bride tried to stem the girl's bleeding, and the third seemed to be trying to get some sense out of that poor man, but he looked as if he was in deep shock. Then the ambulance came, and he turned and walked away. He looked utterly devastated - as though his life had come to an end. I know that I felt too stunned to move for some time, so I can't begin to imagine what he felt. It was all so unreal. You don't expect something so horrible to happen in that quiet, beautiful place."

"I see," said Ward thoughtfully. "Thank you very much, Miss Todd. I only wish I had known all this when I was first assigned to the case. It would have saved everyone a lot of time and trouble."

"But 'adn't you read the newspaper reports since the shooting, ma'am?" said Ray anxiously.

"Unfortunately, no. The day after I gave my first statement, I flew to Portugal to fulfil a commission there, and I only got back late on Saturday. Naturally I'd thought that the police were acting upon my statement, and I hadn't bought any English papers while I was away. My nephew videoed _Police 5_ for me because he knew that I'd witnessed the shooting, and I only got to see it at teatime yesterday."

"Did you by any chance tell DC Chapman that you would be out of the country?" said Ward.

"Yes, I know I did, because I gave him a contact phone number in Portugal in case the police needed to check anything in my statement."

"Devious bastard!" Ray snarled.

Miss Todd looked shocked. "I can't say I approve of your language, sir, but I agree altogether with the sentiment."

"Do you know the caretaker's name?" said Ward.

"Yes. Henry Wilson."

"Thank you. Carling, get the Fenchurch West records to see if he gave them a statement. If he did, he'd have mentioned Miss Todd, and we'd have been able to check with her before now, so probably Chapman has _mislaid_ that too."

"Not that Mr Wilson would have been able to help you very much, even if he had been there. His office is at the front of the building. It was the merest chance that I happened to be in a room overlooking the gardens at the time. Well!" She folded her hands, settled back in her chair, and looked from one man to the other. "I hope you'll call off the hounds from that poor man now, and go after that girl in black instead. But bear in mind that she might have changed her appearance since then. Her hair is no stranger to the peroxide bottle."

Ward smiled, wider this time. "We will. You should be a detective, Miss Todd. Carling, I see you already have a theory as to who this woman might be?"

"Yeah." Ray nodded vigorously. "Not Janet. _Jenette_ Rivens, Tiny Tim Rivens's sister. She was sniffing all round the Guv before the blag, and I'll swear she was turning 'im against the Boss. She 'ad "Honeytrap" in big letters over 'er 'ead, the Guv was a fool to listen to 'er - "

"Well, if he was, he's been paying for it since," said Ward crisply. "Institute a search for Miss Rivens and alert ports, airports and police in Northern Ireland and the Republic. She may have skipped back home. Put out a bulletin that a witness has come forward who states that the shooting was an accident, and that we need DCI Hunt to come forward to clear himself. Please God, that will bring him out from wherever he's hiding."

"Right away, sir!" Ray was grinning from ear to ear.

"Well, thank you very much for all your help, Miss Todd. I'll have to ask you to make out and sign a formal statement and provide our desk sergeant with your contact details."

"With pleasure." They rose, and she and Ward shook hands. Ray looked as if he wanted to kiss her. "I hope that poor young girl gets better quickly."

"No chance of that, I'm afraid," Ward said heavily. "The hospital phoned me just before you arrived. DI Drake died at 8.30 this morning."

Ray sank into his chair and hid his face in his hands.

**TBC**


	4. Life and Death

**Disclaimer: The BBC, Monastic and Kudos own Ashes to Ashes. After Chapter 3, some of you are probably glad that I don't. **

**Thank you to everyone who's reading, and for all the great reviews, but I know I only got a lot of them because I'm HORRIBLE. You've been telling me so. Just remember, I'm putting us through serious angst now, but I hate unhappy endings. Trust me - and keep on reviewing if you're still prepared to speak to me!**

She wished that Samuel had not taken her to an Italian restaurant. Italian food now awakened such strong memories in her of the endless evenings in Luigi's, that it was all she could do not to break down in tears at the sight or smell of it. The one time since the shooting when she had tried to cook spaghetti for Molly, she had ended up sitting at the kitchen table, crying uncontrollably, and had had to throw the spaghetti away and replace it with burgers. She had told Molly that the smell of pasta made her feel sick since the shooting, and Molly had silently accepted the removal of pasta and pizzas from the household menu.

She managed to tell him what she wanted to eat and drink, without disgracing herself, and sat back, deep in thought. She had a strong idea that he had brought her here to propose, and if he did, she was still not sure what she would say. If she married him, it would unquestionably be good for Molly, who needed a father figure. For herself, it might be the way back into the real world. A chance to break with her imaginary past and its memories. But would that be enough, and was it what she wanted - or needed?

"I'm sorry, Alex."

"Pardon?" She brought herself back to earth with a jolt.

"I didn't remember when I booked this table. You probably still aren't used to crowds since you came out of hospital. If it's all too much for you, tell me, and we'll leave."

"No, I'm fine. Fine."

His voice was low and reassuring, and he was so kind and considerate. _What should I do?_

The starters arrived, and her plate of mixed salad, and his vegetable soup, were sufficiently non-Italian for her to endure it. Samuel seemed as nervous as she, and they both kept conversation to a minimum. When their main courses arrived, she saw with a sinking heart that he had ordered lasagne. She kept her eyes firmly on her steak and tried to ignore the smell from across the table.

_"You OK?"_

_"Put it this way, I'll never let Luigi cook me lasagne again."_

The sound of Gene's voice in her head was so vivid that she looked up, astonished. There he was, sitting opposite her, his tie hanging loose, his hair glinting gold in the candlelight, his silver-blue eyes devouring her. She could only gaze at him in rapt silence.

"... like horses?"

She blinked. Gene had vanished. Samuel sat there, looking at her inquiringly. She shook her head to clear it.

"I'm so sorry, I was miles away. Would you mind repeating that?"

"I was just asking if Molly likes horses. Diana's crazy about them. Her Pony Club membership costs me a fortune."

"She likes them, I think every little girl of her age does, but she doesn't ride, if that's what you mean. Not much opportunity, living in the centre of town."

The conversation flowed on, but her responses were automatic.

_Only another hallucination, brought on by the smell of the food. Association_ _of ideas. _

Samuel said little after that, and she could feel him saving himself for the big moment. Once the coffee had been served, and the waiter had left them alone, he cleared his throat nervously.

"Alex, there's, there's something I want to ask you."

"Yes?" She hated making this hard for him, but she didn't dare second-guess him for fear of making a complete fool of herself.

"Yes, I, ah, I know I don't have much to offer a beautiful, brilliant woman like you, but I - I want to ask you to marry me."

Her face softened. "Oh, Samuel, I feel so honoured that you should ask me. But I'm afraid I can't."

He raised an eyebrow. "Can't?"

"No. I'm sorry if you thought I was leading you on, but - I can't."

He shook his head sadly. "No. No, _I'm_ sorry. I shouldn't have asked. I might have known you wouldn't accept. But as Molly had told me that her father has been out of your lives for some years, and all the time you were in hospital nobody phoned you or came to see you, I assumed that there wasn't anyone else, and I hoped that maybe - " He tailed off unhappily.

"There is someone else." Alex's voice was husky with emotion. "Molly never knew him, and I never told her about him. I haven't seen him for many years and in all probability I shall never see him again. I worked with him. We quarrelled badly just before a big police operation which drove us apart, probably forever. We have had no contact since then. I don't know if he is still alive, I don't know if he has gone on to another woman. But that can't change the way I feel about him." She had not realised how true that was, until she said it out loud.

Samuel looked dubious. "Is it worth wasting your life over someone like that? Doesn't Molly deserve better? I'm sorry, I had no right at all to say that. Forgive me."

He looked as if he expected Alex to slap his face, but she nodded.

"It's a fair question. To answer it, I think I'll have to quote the words of someone I knew a long time ago. He should have been the best of men, and he became one of the worst. A police officer, in a position of responsibility, honour and trust, and he abused it to the hilt. Power had corrupted him. He murdered anyone who stood in his way. He protected criminals who were useful to him and destroyed the innocent and good. He tried to corrupt the noblest man in the world. He killed himself in the end, when he faced exposure. Yet he said one thing that I'll always remember."

"What's that?"

Alex looked straight at him. "You can't help who you fall in love with."

There was a long silence.

"A fair answer," said Samuel heavily. "I'm sorry, Alex, this whole evening has been one huge mistake. Can you forgive me?"

"Nothing to forgive," she said warmly. "I hope you can forgive me. I'd like us still to be friends, if that's possible."

"Thank you. I'd like that, and there's the girls, of course, they've only just become friends, and we don't want to spoil things for them."

"Of course not. I'd be grateful if you didn't tell Molly what I've just told you. It's something I want to keep to myself."

"Of course."

He had sufficient delicacy not to insist upon driving her home, but he got the waiter to summon a cab, and insisted upon paying for it. She managed to keep her composure during the journey, but as soon as she closed the front door behind her, she rushed into the living room, sank onto the sofa, and cried and cried.

She had just given up her chance to move on, in favour of clinging onto the ghosts of her imagination. But she knew that she could not have done anything else.

_All this time I've been trying to deceive myself, and someone else had to propose before I could admit it. _

_It doesn't matter that Gene didn't exist except in my imagination. He was my reality, and that has to be good enough for me. All my life, I'll be comparing every other man I meet with him, and finding them wanting. That's just the way I am now, and I have to accept it._

As it turned out, Samuel took it remarkably well. He let their friendship slide back onto an even keel, and neither of them ever mentioned the dinner, or his proposal, again. The one who took it badly was Molly.

"I'm really disappointed in you, Mum! He's so nice, and he would have looked after you. You _need _someone to look after you. You've gone on alone all these years since Dad left. All your boyfriends have been useless. It's time you started again, _properly_! I really like him, and I thought you did too!"

"I do like him." Alex's voice held quiet despair. "I just don't like him enough to marry him."

"Is this because of Dad? Just because he walked out, you mustn't think that someone else would. Doctor Sam wouldn't do that."

"I'm sure he wouldn't. It's hard for me to explain, but someday, when you're a lot older, you'll understand that if I were to marry him when he loves me more than I love him, it would be the cruellest thing I could do to him, to Diana, and to you. It would have been awful for all of us. I think far too much of him to do that to him."

"No, I _don't_ understand," Molly said sulkily. "We could have lived in his lovely house, and Diana would have been my sister, and he'd have taken care of you, and I could have stopped _worrying_ about you for once! It isn't even as though there's anyone else. Not anyone _serious_."

_There is. But I can never tell you._

"That's not the point. There doesn't have to be someone else, for me to know that I shouldn't marry Samuel."

"I _hate_ you!" Molly sobbed, and ran out of the room. Alex stood for a moment, as stunned as she had been when Gene had accused her of neglecting Molly, then she threw herself onto the sofa and cried her heart out.

_Gene, did I lose you for this?_

A couple of minutes later, Molly crept back into the room, begging to be forgiven, and they cuddled and cried together.

"I'm sorry, Mum, so sorry. I didn't mean it, really I didn't. I just want what's best for you."

"Ssh, darling, I know you do. You'll just have to trust me on this."

"I was disappointed, that's all. You've looked so unhappy ever since - since _it_ happened, and I wanted you to be happy again. I'm so worried about you. You keep looking as though you're listening to something that's not there."

_God, she's observant. _

"Thank you, darling. I'm sorry to worry you. It takes time to get over a bullet in the head, you know. That's why I'm not allowed back to work yet. But if I married the wrong man, you'd be worrying about me a lot more."

Molly nodded and sniffed, and they cuddled some more.

Molly had coped so well with the shooting, its aftermath, and her mother's recovery, that Alex had come to take it for granted. This was the first outward sign of the trauma her daughter had undergone, and their first disagreement of any kind since the shooting. Alex was deeply affected by it, and dreaded that it might be the first sign that her lovable little girl might be on the verge of turning into a rebellious teenager.

-oO0Oo-

During the months following her release from hospital, signed off work, she immersed herself in her writing on unusual traumas. She used that as a pretext to retain Sam Tyler's file and read it over and over again until she knew it by heart. She strictly forbade Molly to read it, on the pretext that it was classified. She did not want to have to talk about it to anyone else, for fear of betraying her secret world. She had no intention of setting down her experiences on paper or tape. They were far too precious and personal to be shared.

She knew that, unless the Met decided to pension her off, she would return to work sooner or later, but she had little relish for the idea. She had become so attuned to the vibrant, rough-and-ready world of policing in the 1980s, that the idea of resuming her work as a psychological profiler in 2008 seemed flat and dull by comparison.

She was still too much in love with her imaginary past to be able to accept the reality of the present. Her whispers in the wind were becoming fewer and fainter, and she listened out for them all the more eagerly and cherished them all the more when they came.

-oO0Oo-

"_Blimey, Boss, we've read you nearly all the books in your flat, except the Complete Works of Shakespeare." _Ray again. _"You'll have to wake up, to tell us what to read next. In the meantime, here's "Vanity Fair". That should keep us going for a few days. Chapter One…"_

-oO0Oo-

The letter from the Super, asking her to report to his office for an interview the following Monday, was expected but not welcome.

_I suppose this is when I'll find out if they're going to keep me on, or pay me to go on the scrapheap. They might be looking on me as a liability. The negotiator who got herself kidnapped. Well, I won't go without a fight. _For the first time since the shooting, she felt something other than indifference towards her job. _A need to prove that I'm not useless. Negotiating with the Super might be the biggest challenge of my career._

On the appointed day, she swept into the Super's office with her colours nailed to the mast. He rose and shook her hand.

"It's good to see you again, Alex. Take a seat."

She sat, outwardly docile but inwardly alert.

"How are you feeling now?"

"Much better than I was, thank you, Sir."

"That's good to hear. You've been through a bad time, and I have to say that you've been very good about all this. Still, I hope you know that the Force always looks after its own."

_Translation: We were worried that you were going to claim compensation from the Met for injury and loss of earnings._

"That's good to know too, Sir. If anything _permanent_ had happened to me, my little girl might otherwise have been left unprovided for."

_Touché._

"Well, as I expect you know, the doctors have cleared you to return to work in four weeks' time."

"Yes, Sir. I got the letter this morning. I expect be cleared to start driving again by then, too."

"In that case, I think it's the right moment to give you this." He reached into a folder on his desk and handed her a sealed envelope. She stiffened, expecting a P45. He smiled. "Go on, open it. It won't bite."

He handed her a paperknfe, and she slit the envelope and removed a single sheet of paper with the Met letterhead. The words danced before her eyes: _DCI Promotion Board… Successful candidate…_ She put the letter down, overcome.

"Congratulations, DCI Drake." The Super beamed.

"Oh, my God - Sir - I don't know what to say. It - it's not at all what I expected."

"Why not? It's your promotion, and you've earned it."

"Thank you, Sir, it's just - the board was such a long time ago, I'd forgotten all about it."

"Of course, a month before the shooting," the Super agreed.

_Longer than that for me. Sixteen months longer. _

"The Board actually made their decision on your application, the day before the shooting," the Super continued. "I've been holding onto the letter ever since. The doctors wouldn't let me tell you before. They didn't want you to have any unnecessary excitement."

"Thank you, Sir. I'm quite overcome."

"Well! The first reason for my asking you to come here today, was to inform you of your promotion. The second, was to tell you about a DCI post in a newly-formed unit which we would like you to consider."

"What's that, Sir?"

The Super steepled his fingers. "As you're doubtless aware, one undesirable consequence of the UK's borders having been opened to EU Member States is that criminal elements from other countries have gained admittance to the UK. The problem is particularly acute with regard to immigrants from certain Eastern European countries, some of whom claim political asylum on arrival and can thereafter be difficult to remove. Gangsters have taken advantage of the situation to set up influential criminal networks - everything from begging, pickpocketing and petty theft to DVD piracy, vice rings and drug trafficking, not to mention large scale abuse of the benefits system. Some of them are wanted in connection with offences in their home countries. Others are not, in which case they become our problem. We have a new agreement with the police in these countries to co-operate in dealing appropriately with this issue. It's especially bad in the West End, of course - prostitution and gangs of beggars, pickpockets and traders in counterfeit goods ferried in to fleece shoppers and tourists. A new unit is being set up at Soho Square station to take the lead in handling this problem, and we are hoping very much that you would agree to becoming the DCI."

"I see…"

"It's not what you're used to. Far less theorising and profiling, and far more work on the ground, pulling suspects in and questioning them. Bear in mind that the people who are caught in the act are generally well down the supply chain, often women and children who are terrified of being beaten, deported, or worse, if they fail their masters. They will need sensitive handling when interviewed. A full team of interpreters will be available, of course, but someone like you, experienced in negotiation and the winning of trust, would be invaluable. It won't be an easy job, but it would be a chance to make a difference."

_A chance to do what I was doing at Fenchurch East. To give something back to them, for everything I learned from them about policing on the ground._

"Yes, Sir, I am very interested. I've been wanting to do something like this for a long time. I'll take it."

"Thank you, Alex. That will be a big help."

"Do you know who I'll be working with?"

"Not yet. The unit's only just being set up. Your acceptance of the DCI post is regarded as key. The unit should be ready to kick off in four weeks' time, so that should fit in nicely with the end of your sick leave. Roberts is retiring, so you'll be reporting to a new Superintendent, starting the same day as you."

"Thank you, Sir."

"No, thank _you_, Alex. Now we can confirm you in post, we can proceed with assembling the rest of the team. Is there anything else I can do for you, while you're here?"

"Actually, Sir, yes, there is. I've been using my sick leave to research some cases which I studied at Hendon. It would be a great help if I could check some details on the files of the Met personnel who dealt with these cases. I know that I'd need special permission for that - "

The Super looked at her thoughtfully. "I see no problem with that, so long as you don't divulge any confidential details."

"Absolutely not, Sir. This is for private study only."

"I'll get my secretary to send you a letter of authorisation. Enjoy the last few weeks of your freedom, Alex. Your transfer papers will be in the post."

She walked out of the office feeling ten feet tall. _If only Gene could know. He'd grumble about birds getting above themselves, but secretly he'd be so proud._ _What would_ _Ray say, and Shaz and Chris?_

She stood at the kerb to hail a cab. _I'll sell the Lexus. I know I'll never be able to get into it again without seeing Layton's face in the driving mirror. I'll get myself a new car to celebrate. A red Audi. I'll contact the cherished numberplate people and get myself a personalised numberplate. JLY 751V._

She was halfway home before it occurred to her, that she had thought about the reactions of her imaginary friends from the 1980s, before thinking about her real life friends and colleagues.

-oO0Oo-

_" "...Come, children, let us shut up the box and the puppets, for our play is played out." That's another book finished, Ma'am. Oh, Chris, I can't bear this any longer! It isn't working! Nothing we do is working. What if she never wakes up?" _Shaz's voice dissolved in tears.

_"Don't cry." _Chris's voice was racked with anguish._ "Of course she'll wake up. She just needs a bit longer, that's all." _He sounded desperately unconvincing. _"Come home now, love. You're all in. Maybe she'll wake up tomorrow."_

_"B -but if we go, there'll be nobody with her..."_

_"The doctors and nurses are here, and Terry'll be coming in about half an hour. He'll be here till morning, then Viv will take over. Home, love. Home."_

-oO0Oo-

A week after the interview with the Super, she woke up in the early morning feeling intensely alive. Even in the semi-darkness of her bedroom in the pre-dawn light, she had never felt so deeply aware of the colours and sounds and tastes and smells of the world around her.

She instantly knew what had happened. She had died in 1982, and the missing part of her soul had returned to her. She would never see or hear anything from that world, ever again.

She should have been glad that she was free. Free to live her life in her own time, without the insistent voices summoning her back to a world that she could never re-enter. Instead, she sat on the edge of her bed and cried as if her heart would break.

**TBC**


	5. Dead Man Walking

**Disclaimer: I don't own Ashes to Ashes or the characters. BBC, Monastic and Kudos have all the luck. Nor do I own the additional material on the BBC website, upon which I have drawn extensively for this chapter. **

**Thanks once again to everyone who is reading, alerting, faveing and reviewing this fic. I'm gobsmacked by all the wonderful reviews! Please keep on letting me know what you think, all feeedback is so much appreciated.**

"Alexandra Drake, the first female Detective Inspector in the Metropolitan Police, died in hospital this morning of a gunshot wound sustained during a robbery last month. She was 36. She had been in a coma since she was wounded..."

No. No. It couldn't be true. Maybe they'd got it wrong. Gene's hands were shaking so much that he could barely switch off the radio and grab the remote to get the midday news on TV. But, oh, God, there it was again, and it showed archive film of the two of them together. He remembered that. It was after they'd received a commendation for bravery, for getting everyone at the street party away from _The Finish_ before the blast. Her hair had still been curly then.

"Inspector Drake was 36. She had served with the Metropolitan Police for sixteen months..."

The idiot newscaster went on to the day's weather, and he hit the OFF button and let the remote drop from his hand.

Since the shooting, he had only been able to see her falling. Now he had seen that film of her, he could see her alive again. Bolly, prodding him in the chest as she shouted at him. Bolly, toying with a wine glass, twirling its stem in her slender fingers as she gave him a flirtatious sidelong glance. Bolly, pissed yet again, trying to sit on her sofa and hitting the floor.

_Bolly. Bolly. Bolly. Gone. Gone. Gone._

Bolly gone. Everything gone. Everything he had ever loved. Everything he had lived for. He was a cop killer. A murderer. Criminal scum. If he set foot out of this stinking flat, he'd be in jail. They'd never believe him now.

_Bolly...Bolly..._

He could have sworn that she had been _smiling_ as her eyes closed. As though she had been grateful to him for dispatching her from this life. Sure, it hadn't been much of a life at times, they all had shit to face, but had she really hated it all so much that she'd _wanted _to die?

Home. She had wanted to go home. Turned out that the only home she'd go to would be a hole in the ground.

Gone. All that beauty, that bright spirit, that dauntless courage. The world still existed, and she wasn't in it any more. Why wasn't the sky falling in? Why wasn't everyone screaming? Maybe they were all screaming inside. Like him.

Now he would never know whether she had betrayed him. Whether she had been loyal, if insane, and he had brutally misjudged her, or whether she been prepared to sell him out for some crackpot notion of going back to the future. He would die without knowing.

_He would die._

He knew that he was in shock. He felt numb. It had been like that when Sam died. What he felt now would be nothing compared with the agony when the numbness wore off. Better do as much as he could, before then.

Only one thing left for him to do now. Only one place to be.

He levered himself off the sofa, picked up the remote, put it on the coffee table, unplugged the TV, and looked around the flat. As usual, he had cleaned it meticulously that morning. He went though to the kitchen, his footsteps echoing in his head, removed the plates and cutlery from the dishwasher, and stacked them in the cupboard. He removed the food from the fridge and the larder, dropped it into the pedal bin, and lifted the binbag out. He could dump it in the rubbish chute on the way out. He stripped off Marcus's old clothes and put them in another binbag beside the heaps of shelving and tiles. He went into the bathroom, stumbling slightly, showered, towelled himself dry, dressed with care in his shirt, tie, suit and overcoat, and buckled on his belt and holster.

Taking one more look around the flat, he paused suddenly. Marcus would be frantic when he found the place empty, but he dared not leave any message which might incriminate the lad. He considered for a second, then wrote in impersonal capitals on the telephone pad:

PERCY MAYFIELD

RAY CHARLES

_That'll do it._ He picked up the binbag, cautiously opened the front door, checked that nobody was about, stepped outside, closed the door quietly, and dropped the key through the letterbox. Whatever happened now, this place would never be a refuge to him again.

He would have to hurry, if he wanted to reach St Joseph's before dark.

-oO0Oo-

Fortunately for him, the weather was unpleasant enough to keep most people off the streets. The rain was coming down in a steady mizzle which dotted over the skin like so many ice-cold needles, and the wind was bitter. Passers-by were too anxious to get indoors to pay more than passing attention to the man in the black coat with the collar up, who marched steadily along, facing into the headwind. He had memorised the quickest route on foot from Barony Road to St Joseph's.

By the time he arrived there, the rain had almost stopped and the wind had dropped, but the sky was dark and lowering. He walked through the gate. There was not a soul in the gardens, other than himself. _Here_ he had come through the arch and seen Johnson holding her at gunpoint. _Here_ he had fired and seen Johnson fall. _Here_ the dying man had lain, and he had cradled him in his arms as he died. _Here_ Bolly had stood, and Jenette had grabbed her. _Here_ he had stood as he fired and saw her fall. _Here_ she had lain and he had been standing over her when the others had found him. Why were the stones not still bright crimson with her blood? Had they forgotten so soon?

No. Not here. It was not fitting that he should be standing here, where she had closed her eyes for the last time. _There_, where he had fired the bullet that had ended her precious life. He walked back to the spot where he had been when he fired, and stood for a moment, his gaze sweeping around the garden. He reached for the pistol at his side -

"Returned to the scene, Mr Hunt?"

Sheer astonishment froze him into immobility. He had heard that voice before. That harsh Irish accent had been etched into his memory since that terrible day. Suspicion became certainty as a tall, thin, black-coated man sauntered into view, a cigarette dangling from his right hand.

"Johnson?"

"Oh, no, that was merely an alias. My _real_ name is - or _was_ - Martin Summers."

"She - Drake - kept talking about the other Summers. That was you."

"Correct!" Summers laughed and flourished his cigarette.

Gene had a sense of trying, and failing, to hold onto reality. "You're dead." His voice was expressionless. "You died 'ere, that day. I shot you."

"Also correct!" Summers flourished his cigarette again.

"I'm goin' mad. Too near the edge - "

"I doubt you've ever been saner, Mr Hunt."

"Then what the _bloody 'ell_ is happening?"

"The actions I took in the months leading up to my death were intended to set right a wrong in my past. However, in doing so I caused grievous harm to the lives of several people, most notably Alex Drake, poor young DC Skelton, and yourself. Like Jane Austen's Emma, I had, with unpardonable arrogance, proposed to arrange everybody's destiny. That is why, like many another lost soul, I must wander lonely as a cloud through the times and places I inhabited once, to witness the results of my misdeeds. I can't usually be seen. You, however, are a special case."

"Why? Because I shot you?"

"Because you are entitled to a little explanation, and as you would not accept it from Alex Drake, you are going to hear it from me."

"Am I?" Gene's voice was quiet but dangerous.

"Yes, Mr Hunt, you are." Summers's voice and manner lost all trace of mockery, and he looked deep into Gene's eyes. "If not for your own sake, then for hers. Perhaps you will believe what you are told by a dead man whom you killed."

Gene's every instinct was to look away from that piercing gaze, but he held firm. "Okay, I'll take it that I've lost my marbles. So, what're you goin' to say? I 'aven't got all day."

"You certainly haven't." Summers's gaze flicked momentarily in the direction of Gene's holster before returning to his face. "To begin. I came here from the future. As she did."

"Oh, Christ, not another of 'em - "

"_Listen_ to me, Mr Hunt. You _will_ listen. To resume. My real name is Martin Summers, born in Wicklow in 1951."

"Pull the other one, it plays the Hallelujah Chorus! You're fifty if you're a day."

"I told you, I came from the future," said Summers gravely. "I was born in Wicklow in 1951. My family emigrated to London in 1958. I joined the Metropolitan Police in 1972 and rose to the rank of DI. I left, disgraced, in 2006. In January 2008 I was admitted to hospital. I was dying, slowly and painfully, and an operation was my last hope. It failed, and I slipped into a coma. I never realised before it happened to me, but it's amazing what you can still hear from the world about you, when you're in a coma. The nurses watched the news on the television in my room, and from that I learned that the police were searching for Detective Inspector Alex Drake, who had been taken hostage by a gunman, one Arthur Layton."

"_Drake_ - in 2008 - and _Layton_?"

"I see that both names are familiar to you."

"Of course they are! Layton was the first villain we put away after she joined my team."

"Really? I didn't know. Later, the news reports said that DI Drake had been found on a boat on the banks of the Thames. She had been shot in the head and was in a coma."

"_I was shot, and I woke up here, with you._"

"Pardon?"

"None of your business."

"Well! To resume. She was admitted to hospital, and her room was next to mine. I lay there, listening to all the comings and goings from her room, everything the doctors said about her. I heard her daughter arrive to wait for news of her."

"Her _daughter_?"

"Little Molly. Twelve years old. Poor child."

"God 'elp me. What I said to Drake about 'er kid - "

"Could have killed her even before you shot her. I know. To resume. I was leading what you may call a double life. When I first slipped into my coma, I woke up - here. In this world, in this time. Here, I was alive and well, living the life I chose, while there, in 2008, my comatose body was dying a slow and painful death. No wonder, then, that I chose to continue living here for as long as I could. I had no idea whether I would die in this world when my body died in 2008, but what I was overhearing in the future indicated to me that time flows differently there. A month here is approximately equal to an hour there. Am I confusing you?"

"You're makin' about as much sense as a Japanese war film without subtitles," Gene snapped. "Cut to the chase. _Drake_."

"I had been living here for some time when I began to read, and hear, reports about the intrepid DI Alex Drake of Fenchurch East. At first I dismissed it as coincidence. She couldn't be the same person as that poor woman who awaited an operation in 2008 to remove a bullet from her head. I didn't believe it possible that someone else might have travelled in time, as I had. But then I decided that a _female_ Detective Inspector, so common in my time but so unusual in this, and with the same name as my fellow patient, was worthy of investigation. I did some research, and the more I learned about her, the more convinced I became that they were one and the same. The time to which I had returned, was shortly before an event that changed everything for me. It made me the man I was, for ever afterwards. That had involved a very great wrong, which I needed to redress. But for that, I needed help. A copper who could not be corrupted, and you know how hard _that_ has been to find in the Met just lately. Present company excepted, of course. I resolved to seek assistance from Alex."

"DI Drake to you."

"But naturally, I had to make sure that she was the person that I was looking for. So, I began by seizing her when she was foolish enough to go wandering about Soho on her own, and I…interrogated her."

"Bloody 'ell! You were Doctor Death!"

"Hm, an appropriate name in the circumstances. I hadn't thought of it."

"You pumped 'er full of drugs! You tortured 'er! You might 'ave killed 'er if I 'adn't found 'er in time!" Gene lunged to seize his lapels, and Summers sidestepped neatly, holding up his hands in mock-surrender.

"Now, now, DCI Hunt. Remember, you can't hurt a dead man. You'd do far better to continue listening to what I have to say."

"_Bastard_!" Gene spat.

"As you say, you thwarted me on that occasion," Summers continued calmly. "But there were other ways of making myself known to her. I telephoned her with messages referring to events in the future, which only someone from 2008 would understand. They made her betray that she had knowledge of the future. I left her flowers, both at her office and at her home. I stole the key from her landlord's set and obtained a duplicate, so that I could enter her flat as and when I chose."

"You stalked 'er," Gene snarled. "There are _words_ for sickos like you."

"Plenty," said Summers urbanely. "However, as you yourself said, you haven't got all day. When I had satisfied myself that I had found the right person, I visited her at CID, one night when she was working alone, and introduced myself." He laughed at the memory. "She was terrified. I made her an offer that if she helped me, then I would help her get home to her daughter in 2008. But I made it clear to her that she would have to join the ranks of corrupt coppers. She refused."

"She - " For once in his life, Gene was lost for words.

"Yes!" The pale eyes flashed. "She refused! But I bided my time, hoping that she might eventually become desperate enough to join forces with me."

"Operation Rose." Gene had difficulty speaking. "She said you were behind Operation Rose."

"So I was, but not quite in the way that she thought. You see, I had returned to the time when I had been a young copper. Ready to put the world to rights, spick and span and very proud, as you put it. You met him. PC Summers."

"You were the one who gave us the tipoff about the drugs drop at Lafferty's site?"

"Not me. Him. The callow youth I once was. The earnest woodentop. Of course she recognised my younger self, and that confused her still further."

"Christ, no wonder she didn't trust that kid any further than she could throw 'im! But who murdered 'im?"

"Oh, I did." Summers coolly took a drag from his cigarette.

"You _what_?"

"I sent messages to him and to Alex, asking them both to meet me at the building site at the same time. God, the look on that boy's face when he met himself! He must have thought that he was going mad. So I put him out of his misery. Then I pushed the gun into Alex's hand before she could stop me. I was wearing gloves. Her prints were on the murder weapon. She was trapped. I left her to it. She panicked and disposed of the body. Stupid woman."

Gene's mind swirled with the effort of processing all this new information. "That's why she wasn't surprised when Carnegie told us Summers's body 'ad been found. Why she kept wittering on about the other Summers. But _why_? Murder, blackmail, stalking, framing a police officer - is there _anything_ you 'aven't done?"

Summers laughed and took another drag. "Why be good, when the bad guys have so much fun?"

"Just a minute. You killed PC Summers. He died a month ago. So how the 'ell did you manage to live until 2008?"

Summers laughed again. "Just because you meet yourself, doesn't mean that time folds in on itself. It's not the end of the world. I shot myself. The first man ever to live through a successful suicide attempt!"

Gene strove to concentrate. "That was what she said. _He shot his younger self_. Didn't understand what the 'ell she was on about. But why, for God's sake?"

Instantly Summers was very serious. "As I've told you, I had returned to a time shortly before an event that changed me for ever. That event was Operation Rose. When I had lived though that event before, I was that bright young copper. I'd worked out what was going on, but before I could tell anyone my suspicions, Carnegie got at me. He paid me to turn a blind eye. I was engaged to be married, and my girlfriend and I needed somewhere to live. I let myself be tempted, and the guilt hurt like a bitch. When I joined the Force, I believed. They took that away from me. When I came back here, I had the chance to put things right. To make sure Carnegie and his men didn't get away with it. I allied myself with them, using the alias of DI Boris Johnson, and I killed that boy before he could destroy himself again."

"Aren't you forgetting something?" said Gene bleakly. "There's another boy you could 'ave destroyed."

Summers flicked the ash from his cigarette with a flippant air. "You mean DC Skelton. My poor young pet."

"What the bloody 'ell 'ad that poor daft lad done to you?"

"I needed someone on the inside at Fenchurch East. He suited my purposes. I saw myself in him. Young, idealistic, naïve, eager to serve, but tempted into corruption because he wanted the best for the woman he loved. He was weak."

"You could 'ave ruined 'is life!" Gene roared. "If I'd turned 'im in, as I should 'ave done, he'd be in jail now! He'd 'ave lost everything!"

Summers sighed. "As I told you before, my arrogant desire to set right my own past did involve grievous harm to several other people, him among them. But you need not worry about him. He stood the test and came through. He'll be all right now, with his pretty conscience by his side. She'll never fail him. Unlike my Stella. She was going to leave me, if I didn't get the deposit for a flat. We broke up anyway, after Operation Rose. I couldn't forgive her for driving me to do what I did."

"What about Drake?" said Gene grimly. "You said you needed 'er 'elp. Did you get it?"

"What I needed was someone who couldn't be corrupted. Who could work independently to uncover Operation Rose. Which she did."

"But - but that tape in my office," Gene stuttered. "She was talking about bringing me down."

"Oh, I left that there for you," said Summers nonchalantly.

"I remember, she thought you 'ad. Something else I didn't understand. But _why_?"

"I needed her to focus. You were leading her astray. Clouding her mind. I needed her to see what was important. I had to pull her away from you. God, that was tricky. You and she were tied tighter than either of you knew. The Irish community in London is close-knit, so with my background and accent, it was easy for me to infiltrate it. I knew about Tiny Tim Rivens's part in Operation Rose, and it was a simple matter to persuade his pretty sister to distract you in return for the promise of a very considerable bribe. But I didn't intend for her to attack Alex, I'm sorry about that."

"But why did you have to bring that bitch into it? Why use her to drive a wedge between Drake and me? That bloody tape did the job all on its own. I knew I couldn't trust Drake, after I 'eard 'er talking about 'aving to fight me."

Summers laughed harshly. "Never the most patient man in the world, were you, DCI Hunt? You should have listened to the rest of the tape. Then you'd have heard that it wasn't _you_ that she had to fight. Not you as her Guv. She had to fight what she felt for you. An emotion so strong and so deep that she was even tempted to give up the struggle to get home to her little girl. To stay here with you, for ever."

"_What?_"

"Yes!" Summers shouted. Through the layers of shock, Gene was astonished to see the man's sudden passion. "She loved you that much! I've stood and watched her sleep, hearing her murmuring your name in the night!" Gene snarled and lunged at him again. "Oh, yes, I had fantasies. I was still a man. She called you her lifeline. Her constant. She said that you knew you could trust her, that you cared about her. And while she was telling me that, you were in your office with Jenette in your arms. Did you find that trull a fair exchange for Alex, the best, bravest, truest, most beautiful woman you've ever known?"

"Shut it!"

"She thought she could still trust you. How wrong she was. While, back in 2008, her inert body lay in a coma. She only spoke one word after she was admitted to hospital. Do you know what that word was? Gene. Not Molly. Not her daughter. _Gene_."

Gene could not bear to look at his tormentor any longer. The blood roared in his ears. He stood, his head bowed, his arms hanging by his sides. Summers thrust his face close.

"If I'd been in your place, I'd not have hesitated! But _you_ - you rejected the woman who'd turned down what might have her only chance of getting home, of reunion with her daughter, of _staying alive_, because she loved you! She was the only person you could trust, and you killed her! You fool, man, you fool!"

"Piss off!"

"Don't worry, I'm going. I bid you and your conscience adieu." He sauntered away, as jauntily as he had arrived, singing softly,

"_Do you remember a guy that's been_

_In such an early song?..._

_I'm happy, hope you're happy too-oo-oo,_

_One flash of light…"_

The mocking voice died away. Gene stood, motionless, waiting for the boiling agony in his chest to kill him. It didn't. He reached, mechanically, for the pistol at his side. Its weight felt good in his hand. He placed it against his stomach. Where he had shot her.

No. That might not be fatal. He didn't want to be found alive. He lifted his head and placed the muzzle against his temple. The metal was cool against his skin.

For the last time, he looked at the place where she had stood. For a fleeting moment, he thought that he saw her standing there, holding out her hand to him, the wind whipping the hair about her face.

There was no wind where he was. He blinked the angry tears away, and she vanished.

He would never be allowed to see her again, not in this world nor in any other. He had never believed in another world before, but he had just been talking with a dead man. He would spend eternity knowing that he had destroyed the only thing he had loved. The woman who loved him.

At last he found the words he needed to say, the words Chris had uttered in his deepest anguish.

"I'm sorry, Alex, I am so sorry…"

He pulled the trigger, and a blinding white light flashed before his eyes. The sound of the gunshot sent the birds scolding from the trees, but he did not hear them.

**TBC**


	6. Reality

**Disclaimer: I don't own Ashes to Ashes... you know the rest. **

**Yet again, thanks are due to all those wonderful people who are reading this fic and enduring all the angst, and especially to everyone who's reviewed, faved and alerted it. I love you all!**

**Sorry, there's likely to be a gap before Chapter 7 is posted as I am about to go away for a week. Normal service will be resumed as soon as possible. That also may mean some delay in replying to reviewers, but that doesn't mean that I don't appreciate you - I promise faithfully to reply once I'm back at my keyboard.**

After the first wild burst of grief, she lay, weeping quietly for all that she had lost. Would her secret world continue, now she had left it, or would it go out like a candle? She felt irrationally guilty for abandoning them. What would become of them now, if that world still existed? Who would replace her as DI? Would Ray get his chance at last, or would someone be brought in from outside the team? Would Chris continue to blame himself all his life for her death? Would Shaz marry him? Above all, what would happen to Gene?

She would never know.

She fell asleep again at last, exhausted with crying, and woke up to find broad daylight and Molly, in her pyjamas, bending over her.

"Wakey, wakey, Mum!" The twelve-year-old looked at her more closely, and frowned. "You've been crying. What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I just woke up in the middle of the night with a bad headache, and the pain made me cry. I took some painkillers and they got me back to sleep. It's all right now."

Molly looked sceptical, but decided not to argue the point. There was so much that her mother didn't tell her nowadays.

"You stay there, then, and I'll get breakfast."

"Oh, no, you don't, young lady." Alex threw the duvet back and jumped to her feet. "I didn't come home from hospital to make you a full time carer. Off to the bathroom with you."

She pushed herself grimly into the routine of getting breakfast, trying to ignore the emptiness in her heart and her mind. It was only when they were eating that a thought sliced through her. She paused for a moment, the butter knife in her hand, then resumed buttering her toast with unusual vigour. She could feel Molly watching her.

"I'll be going out to do some research today, Mols. I'm going to a big file repository in West London. I don't know how long it'll take. I'll let Evan know, but if you and he get back tonight and I'm not here, don't worry, that's where I'll be. I'll probably have to turn off my mobile inside the building, for security reasons. I won't be late if I can help it."

"OK, Mum, but are you up to it? You've just had a bad night."

"I've said, I'm all right now. I've only just got the permission from the Super to view these files, and I don't have much time to do this work. The new job starts three weeks today."

She gave much the same explanation to Evan when he arrived to take Molly to school, and as his car pulled away from the kerb, Molly shook her head sadly. She wondered if she would _ever_ be able to stop worrying about her mother now.

-oO0Oo-

With a determination that she had not possessed since before the shooting, Alex dressed, did her hair, called the repository and made an appointment to be admitted to view files at noon, dropped a notebook and the Super's letter of authorisation into her bag, and phoned for a taxi.

It had been a severe shock to learn from Samuel that a former DI named Martin Summers had died in the room in hospital next to hers. The possibility that another real person had managed to enter her fantasy had been deeply disturbing. That had led to the even more disturbing possibility that it had not been a fantasy after all. She had tried not to think of that, fearing that it might drive her mad. Her original intention, when asking the Super for permission to view old Met personnel files, was to see if there were separate records for two officers named Martin Summers, one a PC murdered in 1982, the other, a DI who had retired comparatively recently. She had not even dared to think of looking up the records for Fenchurch East CID in the 1980s. But now, knowing that there was no going back, she resolved to find the answers to at least some of the questions that had tormented her since she had awakened from her coma.

The taxi deposited her in West London outside an ugly grey building, faced with concrete slabs, which housed the old Met personnel archives. After tapping a code into an entry phone, showing her warrant card and the Super's letter several times, and passing beyond several locked doors, she was shown into the repository room.

It was as though time had stood still. In this room, with its high, barred windows and peeling ochre paint, electronic record keeping appeared to be unknown. A droopy-faced uniform with the deeply inappropriate name of Sergeant Gleeson informed her that she would only be allowed to view one file at a time, that she would have to fill out a form by hand, giving as many details as possible, to apply for each file, and that she could make notes but would not be allowed to photocopy or remove any documents. Alex sighed, asked for half a dozen forms, made out the first one and handed it to him through the wire grille, and made out several more while waiting for the first file to arrive. He took so long that she was convinced that she must be sending him on a wild goose chase, and began to breathe again. She tapped her pen on the scarred wooden table, imagining the man's complaints.

"Here y'are, Ma'am." Gleeson shuffled up to her and deposited a file in front of her. "Right at the back of the store, that one was. S'cos it's so old. Y'lucky t'get that one. Date of last paper's more'n twenny-five years ago. S'in a pile waiting t'go t'secon' review."

"Pardon?" Alex was staring in shock at the front cover of the file.

"Usu'lly get destroyed five years after date of last paper, 'nless they go for first review, then they go for secon' review after twenny-five years. Last paper on this one's 1983."

"Why was it retained for second review?" Alex could not believe that she had enough brain power left to ask the question.

"Killed on duty." No sense of regret for a young woman cut off in her prime, her life reduced to a collection of papers. "They're kept twenny-five years if they died on duty or were subject to inquest or crim'nal proceedings." He shuffled back to his desk, his _Racing News_ and his bacon butty, until such time as she should want another file.

Alex had not taken her eyes from the front cover of the file. There it was. Surname: Drake. Forenames: Alexandra Caroline. Date of birth: 10 February 1946. _Yes, that was my birth year when I was in the 1980s. Twenty-seven years before I _was_ born. _Rank: Detective Inspector. Station: Fenchurch East. The cover was stamped in red, _DECEASED._

With shaking hands, she opened the file. On the first minute sheet was a terse note from Det. Supt. C. Mackintosh to WPC Granger, to chase up DI Drake's transfer papers.

_Mac. Shaz._

She turned to the back of the file, to read the documents in chronological order. There, on the first document, was her photograph, with a record that she had joined Fenchurch East CID on 20 July 1981.

_It was real. It was all real. I went back to 1981._

She turned the documents over. Most of them were a dry record of pay, overtime, special payments and requests for annual leave, but among them she found a copy of a commendation for bravery, recording the courageous action of DCI Gene Hunt and DI Alex Drake in saving a large number of civilians, including women and children, from a bomb blast on the Isle of Dogs on 29 July 1981.

_Gene. He was real too. Of course._

The third document from the top recorded her fatal shooting in St Joseph's Gardens, King Douglas Lane on 10 November 1982 and her subsequent decease on 13 December 1982.

_So it was just over a month there. I've been out of my coma for over nine months here._

The penultimate document was a copy of the coroner's report, giving a verdict of death by misadventure.

_Misadventure, not murder. Maybe Gene was cleared after all. Did they find Jenette and get her to tell the truth?_

The final document recorded the release of her body for burial and, as it had not been possible to trace any next of kin, the decision to make a payment from police funds for her funeral and headstone. It included a note of the inscription:

_ALEXANDRA CAROLINE DRAKE_

_10 FEBRUARY 1946-13 DECEMBER 1982_

_FIRST FEMALE DETECTIVE INSPECTOR IN THE METROPOLITAN POLICE_

_VALIANT FOR TRUTH AND JUSTICE_

It further recorded that two more lines had been added to the inscription at the request of Acting DI Carling, DC Skelton and WPC Granger, who had paid for the additional wording between them:

_BELOVED OF GENE HUNT_

_10 FEBRUARY 1936-13 DECEMBER 1982_

_Beloved._

_He died too. On the same day as me. _

_Oh, God, God, don't let that mean what I think it means._

It was fortunate that she had already made out the request for Gene's file, as her hand was shaking too much for her to write anything. As it was, she had to take several deep breaths to compose herself before she could walk the short distance to the counter and ring the bell for Gleeson.

"I - I've finished with this file, thank you," she said unsteadily, pushing it under the grille. "Here's my form for the next one."

"Ta." Gleeson took them and shuffled away with agonising slowness. "Relative, was she?"

"Pardon?"

"This one." He waved her file. "Same name as you."

"Oh, yes. Yes, she was."

The wait for Gene's file was unendurable. She found herself praying desperately under her breath, that what she feared was not true.

_Oh, Gene, Gene. Beloved._

"Here y'are, Ma'am," Gleeson wheezed, dumping another file in front of her. "Fond of them secon' review files, aren't yer? Las' paper on this one's 1983, too."

"That's because I'm studying cases from around that time," she retorted, fixing him with a cold stare. Harder men had wilted beneath her gaze, and he shuffled away mumbling an apology. It was only when he had gone, that she trusted herself to look down at the new file in front of her.

Surname: Hunt. Forenames: Gene S. Date of birth: 10 February 1936. Rank: Detective Chief Inspector. Station: Fenchurch East. The cover was stamped in red, _DECEASED. SUICIDE._

She had been expecting it, but she knew, somewhere in the farthest recesses of her mind, that she was in shock. She felt too numb even to weep for the man who meant so much to her. Her shaking fingers scrabbled helplessly at the file until she managed to open it and turned to the first document. Gene's photo stared up at her. The same as the one on his warrant card, his trademark pout firmly in place. She gazed at it greedily. Apart from those two brief hallucinations in the hospital and the restaurant, she had not seen him for nine months. She wanted to look at him for ever. She would never see him again.

The file was going for second review. The precious photo might be destroyed. The thought was unbearable. She turned to some unimportant pay record and pretended to study it intently while carefully reaching underneath to tear the document with the photo from its tag and slide it, unnoticed, into the bag on her lap.

She permitted herself a small sigh of triumph. At least she would have his picture to carry with her through life. Proof, if she should ever doubt it again, that he had really existed.

She turned feverishly through the pages. Pay records, leave applications, the commendation for bravery. A note of his suspension in November 1981 and subsequent reinstatement. Transfer papers for his move to Plymouth, signed by Mac and scored through in red ink with a note in Shaz's writing that the transfer had been cancelled. A copy of the coroner's report on DCI Gene Hunt, found dead in St Joseph's Gardens at 16.30 on Monday 13 December 1982, with a bullet wound in his right temple and a pistol, identified as the one issued to him by the Metropolitan Police, in his right hand. A single gunshot had been heard at 16.24 by a passer-by who had alerted the police. Ballistics tests had demonstrated that the bullet which had killed DCI Hunt, had been fired by the gun found in his hand. In the absence of any relatives, the body had been identified by Acting DI Ray Carling. The coroner had noted that DCI Hunt's whereabouts between the shooting of DI Drake on 10 November and the discovery of his body on 13 December remained a mystery, but that the evidence pointed to his having taken his own life upon learning of DI Drake's death earlier that day, although whether the act had been prompted by grief, by remorse, or by despair at believing that he would be found guilty of her murder, was impossible to say. The coroner further noted that the case was particularly tragic because a witness had come forward earlier that day to testify that the shooting of DI Drake had been an accident, and that he must have died without knowing this. The verdict was suicide.

A manila folder promised photographs of the corpse, taken at the scene and later in the morgue. She could not bear to look, could not read any more. She had to get out of this place before she started screaming. With a huge effort, she closed the file, walked across to the counter, and rang the bell for Gleeson.

"Here's the file," she rasped, her voice sounding unlike her own. "I'm sorry, I don't feel very well. I'll come back another day to look at the other files." She turned and walked away unsteadily, not seeing Gleeson glaring at her back. It had taken him ages to find those files, and the bloody arsey woman had barely _looked_ at either of them.

She felt as though she couldn't breathe. She passed out through the security doors and into the fresh air, feeling the wind on her face as though it were caressing someone else's skin. She was so distracted that she nearly walked into the road and stopped herself in the nick of time.

_Have you any idea what the paperwork's like on suicides?_

Seeing a taxi coming, she hailed it. She was conscious that she looked so distraught that the driver would be within his rights to ignore her, but he pulled into the kerb.

"St Joseph's Gardens, King Douglas Lane, please."

She huddled into the back of the cab, feeling as though the world were falling to pieces about her. She had long since accepted that she would never see him again, but that had been endurable so long as she had believed that he was not real. The knowledge that he had existed, had died, that she had unwittingly been the cause of his death, was more than she could bear. That great life force, snuffed out by his own hand. By her.

_So much I never told you. So much I didn't know, then._

Only one thing she could do now. Only one place to be.

-oO0Oo-

She arrived, paid off the cab, and turned to face the gate. She had never been to this place in her own time, yet she recognised every inch of it as though the King Douglas job had taken place only yesterday. _Here_ she had seen Summers enter the gardens, and had gone after him. _Here_ was the wooden bench. The inscription on the back simply said "City of London". Before, it had said "48 ML". _Here _was the tree marker which had said "49 ML". _Here_ Summers had seized and disarmed her. _There_ Gene had stood when he challenged Summers and shot him. _Here_ Summers had fallen and died in Gene's arms. _Here_ she had backed away and Jenette had seized her. And _there_ - oh, God, _there_ Gene had stood as he fired and she fell. Had he stood there when he fired again, at himself?

The gardens were empty save for her. No-one came to interrupt her lonely vigil. She stood there for a long time, gazing at the spot where she knew, instinctively, that he had died. A fresh breeze blew her hair about her face, but she did not heed it.

"Why did I come here?" she said softly. "Did I think that I could be in time to save you? I know I'm too late for that, Gene. Twenty-six years too late. But if you're still anywhere in this world, I know that it'll be here, where you shot me and where you died. You wouldn't listen to me then. Perhaps you will, now.

"You see, Gene, I've only just found out that you were real. That it was all real. I should have known long ago. Maybe you know now that I told you the truth when I said that I came from the future. That I was shot in the head in 2008 and woke up in your time. I thought at first that it was all in my imagination. I treated all of you as my constructs, not as real people. God, how arrogant I was then. But the longer I stayed with you, the more your world became my reality. Did you die still thinking that I had betrayed you? Do you know now that I would never have done that? Real or imaginary, you had all come to mean too much to me. I couldn't destroy you, even to get home. I had the chance, but I didn't take it. I knew that Sam had betrayed you. But when he'd done it, he couldn't rest until he had returned to you to undo the wrong that he'd done. I didn't want to be tempted to return to you, once I'd got back home. I couldn't abandon my daughter. You thought me cold because I didn't phone her or try to see her. That was because she was twenty-six years away. I'd been trying so desperately to get home to her that I'd even denied what I felt for you.

"I love you, Gene. I always will. Perhaps I always did. I hated you at first, because all I saw was what you intended me to see, but as time went on I found the good, kind, decent man beneath the bastard you made yourself out to be. You became my lifeline, my constant, the one thing in that world that I could depend upon. I'd never needed anyone so much as I needed you. I need you still. I don't know how I'll manage to go on living without you, even though I know that I must.

"You were right. We did have a connection. We still have. It's as strong as ever, even though you've been dead for more than a quarter of a century. I couldn't admit to what I felt for you, even to myself, any more than you could admit to what you felt for me. I needed to get home, and you - I know you had your reasons. You'd been hurt too much in the past, ever to risk showing what you felt. You'd come to look upon it as a sign of weakness, and my Lion could never be weak. But you came so close to it, when you asked me to explain that tape. You were so vulnerable. You admitted that you felt adrift. You as good as asked me if you'd ever meant anything to me. But when I trusted you as deeply as you trusted me, you couldn't accept what I tried to tell you, and that drove us apart forever.

"If only I hadn't told you then that I came from the future. How could I possibly have expected you to understand that? I should have found something else to say. I should have admitted that I'd been fighting my feelings for you. It would have made it so much harder for me to leave you, but if I'd known what was going to happen, I'd have done it, to save you. Instead I destroyed you after all, as surely as if I had betrayed you. Your bullet sent me home, but it was at the cost of your life. The coroner said that you didn't leave any note to say why you killed yourself. If you had, it would probably have said that it was to escape being sent down for shooting me. But Ray and Chris and Shaz knew why. They put it on my tombstone for you. _Beloved._

"God, how ironic it is. All the time I was in the 80s, I only wanted to get home. I was so sure that once I woke up, I'd dismiss it all as a dream and resume my life here as though nothing had happened. But now I'm here, I can only think of you, of the time we were together. I know that I'll never be the same again. Just like Sam. But I can't kill myself to find you, as he did. Molly needs me.

"Goodbye, Gene. I have to leave this place now. I'll go out through the gateway, back to my daughter, to the world that isn't my reality any more because you aren't in it. I'll live out my empty life here as best I can, for Molly's sake, and I'll never stop searching for you. Whenever I'm in a crowd, I'll be looking for a tall man with golden hair, and if I see one I'll rush up to him, even though I know that it won't be you. I'll keep on searching for as long as I live, and I'll hope that when I die, somehow we'll find each other again and that, by then, you'll be able to forgive me for causing your death. Until then, goodbye, my dear, dear love."

Tears were flowing freely down her cheeks, and the wind was whipping her hair into her eyes. Through her blurred vision, for a moment she thought she saw a familiar figure, standing where he had stood that day, gun in hand. She held out her hand to him, blinking the tears away, and he vanished.

The gunshot was shockingly loud in that quiet, beautiful place. She knew instinctively that only she had heard it. Otherwise it would have sent the birds scolding from the trees.

The black-coated figure exploded from nowhere and fell, face down, a few paces in front of her.

**TBC**


	7. Transfer

**Disclaimer: BBC, Monastic and Kudos own Ashes to Ashes. If I did, Series 3 wouldn't be the last!**

**Yet again, thank you so much to everyone who is reading this story, and especially for all the wonderful reviews. I can't say how much I appreciate them. **

**This chapter has been the difficult bit of fanfic I've written yet (more difficult than Chapter 3 of Candlelight, which says a lot). It took me weeks, and I'm still not sure whether I've got it completely right. The strain may show, I don't know. Sorry if it does.**

It seemed to take an age for her to run the few steps to reach him. She sank to her knees in front of him. His head was turned to one side, and she could see his face. His eyes were closed.

_Gene._

How he came to be there, with her, she could not even begin to imagine.

_But Sam killed himself in 2006 to get to 1973. Gene killed himself in 1982, and he's come to 2008._

She reached out a trembling hand to touch his temple, dreading to find the golden hair clotted with his blood. His pulse hammered beneath her fingers, and she let out a shuddering sob of relief. Suddenly his eyes opened. He looked up at her, and backed away on all fours, snarling, his eyes blank with terror. For a hideous second, she thought that his passage through time must have turned his mind.

"Gene." She reached out and caught his right hand firmly between both her own. "_Stay_."

That single word, which had united them when they waited for a traitor, seemed to calm him. The terror in his eyes faded slightly, and she saw him assessing the woman in front of him, the same and yet not the same as the one he had known, saw him accept that there might, just might, be another woman who looked like her, but surely only ever one who would answer to -

"_Bolly?_"

"Yes, Gene. It's me. It's all right." She knew that it might never be all right for him again.

He hesitated. "We're both dead then?"

The corner of her mouth crooked. "Not unless you're St Peter, and I find that highly unlikely, don't you?"

She instantly regretted her clumsy attempt at levity, but he nodded slightly, and she saw him accepting it as further confirmation of her identity. Only the two of them could ever have known about that exchange.

His eyes bored into hers. "Where are we?"

"Look around you," she said gently.

With an effort, he tore his gaze from her and took in his surroundings. "St Joseph's?"

"You asked the wrong question. You should have said, _when_ are we?"

He looked at her again and spoke with an effort.

"The future?"

"Yes, Gene," she said softly. "The future."

The blue eyes blazed. "_When?_"

"Brace yourself, Gene. It's 2008. Where I came from."

He looked about him again. "It's still the same."

"This place is no different. But when you go out though the gate, you will find a world unimaginably changed."

She recognised all his confusion, his bewilderment and fear. It was exactly how she had felt, when she first awakened in 1981. "But_ how?_ You died, an' I - I - "

"I know what you did," she said, very low. "I only found out this morning. I looked up your file. I came straight here. I don't know why I did that. I just felt that there was nothing else I could do. It's as though I was sent to be here when you came to me. Just as I was sent where you'd find me when I woke up in 1981." She looked closer at him. "You don't understand what I'm saying, do you?"

To her surprise, he nodded slowly. "Yes. Yes, I do, actually. What I _don't_ know is why we're not dead."

"I don't know how this has happened. All I know is that I was shot in the head in 2008 and went back in time to you in 1981. You shot me, and I woke up back home, here in 2008. You - were shot in the head, and you've been brought forward in time to me."

His eyes hardened. "I killed you." He tried to pull his hand away, but she gripped it firmly.

"No. You sent me home."

He slumped forward, his head bowed over their joined hands. "I'm so sorry, Alex. I am so sorry."

"_Gene_. Look at me." She gently tilted his chin upward. He looked weary and haggard, and the agony in his face could have broken her heart. _God knows what he's been through since the shooting._ "It was an accident. I moved into your line of fire. You weren't to blame. You were trying to save me. You'd been angry with me, but I know you would never have harmed me."

He reached out to touch her cheek, feeling the warm skin, still wet with her tears. "You're alive."

She stroked his face, as she had when he saved her from the cold store, and he trembled beneath her touch. "So are you." She longed to cling to him and never let him go, but she forced herself to hold back. He would have to get used to a whole new life. A whole new world. He would need her help, but he might not need her love. It might have to be enough for her, to know that he was alive and safe.

She helped him to stand. He was still dazed and shaking. She flung her arm around him, deeply conscious of the feel of his warm, powerful body beneath the layers of fabric, and helped him over to a seat at the foot of the church tower, facing the place where he had fallen. He sank onto it heavily, and she sat beside him, turning around to face him. He reached out towards her, almost blindly, and they gripped each others' hands. She felt intoxicated by his presence.

"I'm so sorry, Alex. I am so sorry," he muttered again. His eyes could not meet hers.

"It's all right. It's all right." She strove to make her voice as gentle and soothing as she could.

"I doubted you. I thought you were lying." His voice was full of pain.

"I gave you good cause," she said quietly. " You had no reason at all to believe me."

He could not answer.

"Gene." She spoke urgently, and their eyes met again. "Do you believe now that I never, never betrayed you?"

"I know." His voice rang with truth. "There's a lot I know now, I didn't know then."

"What do you know?" She held his hands even tighter and looked deep into his eyes. "Tell me. Please."

He shook his head as though to clear it. "I'd been in hiding since the shooting. Only broke cover to come to the hospital once, but you were out cold an' I was nearly caught. Couldn't risk goin' back again. Marcus Johnstone hid me - remember 'im?"

"Of course I do. God bless him for that."

"Then, this morning - _that_ morning - they said on the news that you - you'd died. I came 'ere with my gun. That was when I met 'im."

"Who, Marcus?"

"That bastard Johnson. Real name Summers. The _other_ Summers."

"But he was dead," said Alex confusedly. "You'd killed him, that day."

"Oddly enough, I'd already come to the same conclusion, Inspector," said Gene sarcastically. "He admitted to being dead. Said it was because he'd done so much damage to other peoples' lives that he still 'ad to wander the world. Couldn't usually be seen, but he had to explain things to me. Everything you'd tried to say an' I wouldn't listen. Thought I must be goin' mad, seein' things, but I heard 'im out."

Alex tensed. "What did he tell you?"

Gene sighed heavily. "That you an' he both came from 2008 an' were in comas in the same 'ospital at the same time. That Layton 'ad shot you in the head." He looked at her anxiously. "All right so far?"

"Yes." She lifted her fringe aside to show him the scar on her temple. He flinched. "Last February. He kidnapped me, took me to his boat, the _Princess Di_, and shot me. I woke up in 1981, in the middle of Markham's party. The boat was raided and you saved me from him. The boat was called the _Lady Di _then."

"Yeah, you said, you were shot an' woke up with me. No wonder you thought you were dreaming. All that imaginary constructs crap."

"Yes. I'm so sorry, Gene. I didn't know, then. What else did Summers tell you?"

"That you've got a daughter, an' she was waiting for you to wake up."

"Yes." Alex smiled fondly. "My Molly. You'll have to meet her."

Gene buried his face in his hands. "Sorry, Bols. You didn't 'it me 'ard enough. Should 'ave thumped me into the next parish."

"I should," Alex agreed soberly. "But we both said and did things we shouldn't have, that night. We played right into Summers' hands. It doesn't matter now. Go on. Did he tell you anything else?"

Gene looked up, but could not look at her yet. "He admitted he was Doctor Death an' that he'd been stalking you because he wanted you to 'elp 'im with Operation Rose. Said he offered to 'elp you get back 'ome, but you refused. That PC Summers was 'is younger self. That 'e murdered PC Summers an' framed you. That he'd come back to put things right, to stop Carnegie getting away with it. That he got at Chris, poor silly sod, an' blackmailed 'im. That he drove a wedge between us because he wanted you to concentrate on Operation Rose, so he paid that prize bitch to come between us an' left your tape for me to find."

"Gene, I have to tell you - that tape - "

"It's okay, Bolly. I understand now." He spoke a shade too quickly. "You were fighting to get 'ome. Not fighting me. I should 'ave listened to you."

_Summers can't have told him what else was on it. Let it be._

"Was that all he told you?"

"Yeah. Pretty much. Bastard. Hurting all those people to ease his own guilty conscience."

"Did you believe everything he told you?"

"Yes. I did. I do. Bloody 'ell, I was in 1982 this morning, an' 'ere I am in 2008. If that isn't proof, I don't know what is."

A terrible thought struck her. "Did he tell you about the witness?"

His brow creased. "What witness?"

"It's on your file. The day we both died, a witness came forward who'd seen everything from St Joseph's House. She testified that the shooting was an accident. They were looking for you to tell you that you'd been cleared. That bloody two-timing time-travelling Irish bastard let you kill yourself without telling you. Oh, Gene…"

_I've ruined any chance I might have had of winning his love. But I had to tell him the truth. _

"You mean - I could 'ave gone back?"

"Yes. Back to Fenchurch East. To your kingdom. Back to Ray and Chris and Shaz and Viv."

"But not to you."

She shook her head. "No. I was dead there."

There was a long silence, and he looked away, processing what she had told him. She watched him in silent anguish. At last, he drew a long, deep sigh. "All the time I was shut up in Marcus's flat, I was thinking of us goin' back there together. You an' me. Without you - yeah, I'd 'ave gone back, but it would've been a living 'ell. I killed you. I'd 'ave 'ad to live wi' that, every day an' every night, an' I'd 'ave known that they'd all be thinking that, every time I looked at 'em or told 'em to do anything. I'd 'ave drunk myself to death if I didn't shoot myself first. All I did was do the job quicker. I knew nothing'd be worthwhile any longer, with you gone. Comes to that, that bastard didn't say you were still alive in 2008. Just that you were dead. That was why I shot myself. Thought that was _it_. Instead, I wake up 'ere, with you. Still don't know why, but I know you don't know that one either."

Alex hesitated. "The day my parents died, you told me - "

"Parents? 'Ang on, Bols, I thought you didn't 'ave any family except your daughter."

"I did, but I couldn't tell you then. No more secrets between us now. Only the truth. My parents were Tim and Caroline Price."

"Bloody 'ell!"

"Just as Summers came back to 1982 for a special reason, to stop Operation Rose, I had a special reason for returning to 1981. I thought it was to save them."

Light dawned. "But - but their daughter - "

"I couldn't change the past, as Summers did. I know now, that my reason for returning was not to save them, but to learn why they died, and to learn who it was who saved me, both from the explosion and from growing up with a truth too terrible to endure. _It was you. _Gene, you held my hand that day. You have held it ever since, and you always will."

He gazed at her as though he had never truly looked on her before. "Alex Price … you were Alex Price…"

"Yes, Gene. You were right. We have a connection. It has lasted since I was eight years old."

"Alex. Little lady."

"Gene Genie. My knight in shining armour. You told me that day, that you were needed and you were there. You're where you're needed now."

"_Me?_ Buggering 'ell! You don't need me any longer, Bols. You're 'ome now, with your daughter. You've got your own life back. I'm just something from the life you were tryin' to escape." His weary face was shuttered, but she could see the desperate longing in his eyes.

"Gene - "

"I shot you an' I didn't trust you. You don't need me." He looked at the ground again. She sensed that his instinct was to get up and walk away, out of her life, before he could do any further damage.

_But he hasn't anywhere to go. He's a stranger here, as rootless as I was when I first came to him._

"_Gene._" She reached out to touch his cheek, thrilling at the feel of his warm skin beneath her fingertips, as she gently turned his face towards hers. "We always found it hardest to say the things that mattered, but you managed more than I ever did. When you found the tape. _If I mean anything to you at all._ I've treasured those words so dearly, all the time we've been apart. Oh, my love, you did. You do. You'll never know how much, because I'll never be able to say it. I didn't know how much, until I thought I'd never see you again. I just hope I'll be able to show you. Ever since I woke up here, my life has been empty without you. I'll always love you, I'll always need you. My guardian angel. My Lion. My lifeline. My constant."

He flinched at her words and looked away. "No, I'm not. You don't know what I did."

"What was that?" she said gently.

He could not look at her. "After I chucked you out an' the others 'ad gone, that bitch came back - and - "

"I know."

He look at her sharply. "_How?_ You weren't there, an' she can't 'ave told you - "

"I slept that night, God knows how, and my waking dream was of your kiss. Our connection is so close, I _knew_. It was I whom you kissed in the night, not her."

"You still trusted me, after everything I'd said an' done," he muttered bitterly. "Summers said so. An' I betrayed you."

"It doesn't matter. Not now," she said gently. "They betrayed us both, but they couldn't destroy us. We're the proof of that. Here, now, together."

She saw the hope kindling in the blue depths of his eyes. "Bolly - "

She smiled. "You don't get it, do you? I thought I'd lost you."

"I thought I'd lost you - "

Neither knew afterwards who moved first. It didn't matter. Suddenly they were in one another's arms, where they needed to be, clinging close in a deep embrace that wiped away the agony of loss and separation.

"Stay here forever," she sobbed into his coat. He gently tilted her chin up and looked into her tear-stained face.

"All right, then, I will." His voice was very solemn as he unconsciously echoed the same pledge given by another man to another woman, thirty-five years earlier.

"Don't leave me again. Never again. I couldn't bear it."

"I promise you I won't leave you. You'll 'ave to walk out on me first," he rumbled. "You're stuck wi' me now. Bad penny."

"_No."_ She looked shocked. "Hidden treasure. The brightest gold in the world." She stroked his shining hair and laid her hand upon his pounding heart.

He looked down, embarrassed. "I, uh, I 'ope you - "

She took pity on him. "Gene. _I know._"

He made an enormous effort. "I love you." The effect was as if he were trying to swallow a whole sandwich in a single gulp.

_Not the most romantic declaration ever, but, God, he's trying hard._

"I know," she repeated gently. "Everyone seemed to know it but us."

_Someday I'll tell him what Ray and Chris and Shaz put on my tombstone. Not now._

"Yeah. Luigi always knew, didn't he? So did Jackie. That was what she meant - _Are you absolutely sure there's nothing going on?_ I nearly got it out of you, then the bloody phone went."

"That was Summers, stalking me again."

"Even he knew. He, uh, he told me what else was on that tape."

"Oh - " Her hand flew to her mouth. "So you knew before - before you left there."

"Yes." He looked at her very intently. "But when I woke up 'ere, I didn't know if you still felt the same."

"Told you - always - "

"_Bols. _Stop cryin'. That's an order." He tenderly smoothed her lingering tears away with his thumbs and cupped her face in his hands. She felt overwhelmed by his gentleness. _To think I used to dismiss him as a coarse brute. How could I not love this violent, gentle, complex, beautiful man? _Hesitantly, they moved closer, and slowly, sweetly, their lips met. They clung fiercely together, feeding from one another as though their lives depended upon it, their kisses constantly deepening until -

"Sir? Madam? Excuse me, this _is_ a public place."

They broke apart and looked up to find an amused young PC looking down at them.

"Police officers," they said simultaneously. and Alex whipped out her warrant card while Gene was still searching for his. The PC glanced at her card, blushed, and backed away.

"Oh, sorry, Ma'am. I didn't realise."

"On surveillance," Gene added, his voice laced with sarcasm. "So bugger off, you great tit, before you blow our cover."

"Y - y - yes, Sir." Alex was amused to see that the PC was more cowed by Gene than by herself, even though Gene had not produced his warrant card.

"While we're at it, Sonny, hadn't you better be smartening yourself up a bit? Not exactly a credit to the Force looking like that, are we?"

The PC looked down at his stab proof vest, shirt, trousers and boots. "Sir?"

"_Gene_." Alex muttered, sotto voce. "All right, constable. That will be all."

"Yes, Ma'am." The bewildered bobby made his escape.

"Bloody PC Gooseberry. Why did you shut me up?" Gene demanded as soon as they were alone.

"Because you were about to demonstrate your ignorance of the present day police force. That boy's wearing the modern Met uniform for a beat copper."

"Bloody 'ell, things 'ave gone downhill. How can they expect the public to respect 'em when they look like that?"

"I admit it doesn't look so smart, but it is more practical. But why didn't you produce your warrant card?"

"Don't know if I've even got one in this day an' age. If I have, I can't find it." He fumbled in his pockets. "Shit, nothing's where it should be. All the pockets are in different places."

She drew back to look at him. "That's because you're wearing different clothes," she said approvingly. "I hadn't noticed before, I was too busy looking at the man inside them. It figures. I was shot in 2008 wearing a smart trouser suit and turned up in 1981 dressed as a tart. Your 1982 clothes would look a bit old-fashioned nowadays."

"What about my coat? I _liked_ that coat!"

She ran her finger along the sleeve. "Well, this is a nice black overcoat too. It feels like cashmere. You've gone upmarket. _Very_ good suit, too. This rig would cost more than you're usually prepared to spend on your clothes. I hope you can afford to keep it up."

He reached into his inside breast pocket. "Gotcha!" He pulled out his warrant card and a sizeable manila envelope. "What's all this stuff?"

"Let's have a look."

He opened the warrant card. "Bloody 'ell, Bols, must be some mistake 'ere."

She chuckled. "No, there isn't. You're a Superintendent, Gene! You've been promoted after all these years. No wonder you can afford a decent suit. Congratulations!"

Gene looked outraged. "You mean I've been sent 'ere to sit in a poncey office an' chair meetings?"

"Well, knowing you, you have the potential to become one of the Met's more _dynamic_ Supers, so long as you don't start knocking people around when they're in custody. That's frowned upon nowadays. It doesn't mean that you can't make a difference, though," she added soothingly.

"At least I'm two ranks above you now. You'll _'ave_ to toe the line."

"Oh, no, I'm not." She grinned. "I've just been promoted too. You're addressing DCI Drake."

"Bloody 'ell, is there _anything_ they don't let birds do these days?" But, just as she had imagined, he fairly glowed with pride. "Good on you, Bols."

"Let's have a look at the rest of this stuff." She opened the envelope and drew out a thick wad of documents. "Good grief, you've come well prepared. I didn't have half these things when I came to you. Cheque book - credit cards - this one's for a savings account - birth certificate for Eugene Stuart Hunt, born in Manchester, 1962 - "

"Eh?"

"That's right, it makes you 46 in 2008. Insurance papers - driving licence - passport - "

"You mean that 'orrible thing's a passport? _European Union?_ Tcha! Whatever 'appened to the blue-an'-gold passports, then?"

"Discontinued some years ago, I'm afraid. Transfer papers - " They read the documents together, and she gave a yelp of surprise. "Good God, Gene, you're going to be my new Super! We've both got to report to Soho Square station, three weeks from today! I knew the old Super was retiring, but I hadn't been told who was taking over."

He grinned broadly. "Still a team, wherever we are an' whatever time we're in. You an' me, Bolly. Unbreakable." He pulled a long cream envelope from the wad. "Bloody 'ell, Bols, this one's addressed to you."

"To _me_?" She took it and looked at the writing on the front. Her heart sank. "Oh, God."

"Something wrong?"

"Summers," she scraped. "That's his writing. God knows I know it well enough." _Please, God, don't let him take Gene from me now._ Her hands shaking, she opened it, and smoothed out a single sheet of cream paper.

_My dear Alex,_

_It has been borne in upon me that, in striving to set right my own past, I have caused unwarrantable damage to the lives of many others, not least DCI Hunt and yourself. I hope that sending you the enclosed, and the bearer, may atone in some slight measure for the grief and distress which I occasioned you both._

_I have been told to ask you to inform DCI Hunt that his permanent transfer to 2008 has been made possible, as a balance to the transfer made in the other direction some time ago by a certain Tyler. Not the Tyler at the Masonic Lodge. The other one. I believe that he will understand what this means._

_Affectionately yours_

_M.S. _

"_Tyler_?" Gene stared at her, white-faced. "What the 'ell's 'e on about? What's Sam got to do wi' all this?"

Alex thought for a moment. "I told you that Sam came from the future, like me."

"Yes." He was very tense.

"He was a DCI in the GMP. In 2006, he was in a car accident and was in a coma for several months. During that time, he travelled back to 1973 and worked as DI on your team. You know that he left you and the rest of the team under fire in the railway carriage when Leslie Johns's wages snatch went wrong. That was when he awakened from his coma and found himself back in 2006. But he couldn't rest, knowing that he had unwittingly abandoned the four of you to certain death. He couldn't connect with his own world again. The only reality for him was 1973."

"Hang on. He didn't leave us in the tunnel. He turned straight back."

"In your time, only a few seconds passed. It was several months here. I found out this morning, we both died in 1982, nearly five weeks after Operation Rose. It's been over nine months here."

"So how did 'e get back to the tunnel to shoot Johns?"

She looked deep into his eyes, trying to give him strength. "He killed himself and went back to you, to save all of you."

"Oh, God." Gene bowed his head, and she could see his desperate efforts not to break down.

"You all meant so much to him, that he was willing to give up his life here for the chance to go back and save you. I don't know how much that will comfort you, but it's the truth. Jackie told me that, once he'd settled down and stopped fighting whatever he was fighting, he was happy with Annie and the rest of you."

They were both silent for a few moments while she gave him time to recover. At last he looked up at her again. "But how did you know all this?"

"After he woke up from his coma, he recorded his experiences in the 1970s and sent me the tapes and a typed report. I was collecting material from colleagues who had suffered unusual traumas."

"So you were his psychiatrist."

"_Psychologist_."

"Whatever."

Alex struggled for words. "He killed himself and went back to 1973. That meant that there was one person too many in the past. That's what Summers' letter means. You killed yourself in 1982 and came here. By coming to the future, you balanced Sam's move to the past. Sam made it possible for us to be together. His gift to us. I'd never have known about you, never been able to come to you, if it hadn't been for him."

"Yeah." Gene looked exhausted again. The news about Sam seemed to have knocked all the stuffing out of him. He held out one arm to her, and she cuddled against him and leaned her head on his shoulder.

"I'm so sorry, Gene. You've lost so much."

"Yeah." His voice was expressionless. "I knew when I came 'ere this morning - _that_ morning - that I'd never see any of 'em again, Ray, Chris, Shaz, the team. I'll miss 'em, y'know. I'll miss 'em all like 'aving my right 'and cut off."

"So will I," she said softly, her eyes misting with tears. She could not bear to look at his face.

"But I've got you," he went on, his voice firmer. "If I'd stayed there, I'd 'ave lost you, an' I'd 'ave missed you like 'aving me ball sack cut off. Thought I'd be dead after I shot myself. Instead,'ere I am, with you. Makes it worthwhile."

"Thank you, Gene," she whispered, rubbing her eyes.

He glanced tenderly down at her. "Thought I ordered you to stop cryin'?"

Before she could reply, something in her pocket vibrated and played _Life on Mars_. Gene jumped violently, and Alex sat up, took out her mobile, looked at it, pressed a button, and put it to her ear.

"Hello, Evan. Yes, I'm sorry, I've been caught up with, um, this research I'm doing. Home already? Good grief, I didn't realise it was so late. No, don't wait for me, I know you're meeting a client this evening. Tell Molly to be getting on with her homework, and I'll put supper on as soon as I get in. I won't be a few minutes, I'm in central London now. Yes, I'm sure. Thanks, Evan, see you tomorrow. 'Bye."

She ended the call, put the phone in her pocket, and found Gene staring at her, scandalised.

"_Evan White?_"

"Steady on, Gene. Remember, he was my guardian and my godfather. He's Molly's godfather, too."

"Oh. Yes. Of course. I forgot."

"You don't need to feel jealous of him any longer, he's 59. He's been taking Molly to and from school while I've been unable to drive. He was just phoning me to say that she's back home."

"A _phone?_ That thing?"

"Mobile phones. Everyone has them now. Something else you'll have to get used to. Oh, Gene, I only hope you can absorb all these changes."

"Yeah. So do I." He did not sound overjoyed at the prospect.

"In the meantime, duty calls." She glanced at her watch and then at Gene, suddenly feeling shy. "Will you come home with me?"

_Home._ He liked the sound of that, but he felt awkward. "Are you sure you want me around?"

"Of course I do," she said warmly. "We have a spare room. Don't worry about Molly, she'll adore you. She has good taste in men, too."

He knew that in fact he had no choice, unless he used one of his new credit cards and put up at a hotel, and he could not do that without offending Alex. More than that, he knew how desperately he would need her in this strange new world. He disliked these feelings of need and vulnerability. They made him feel uncertain of himself. He had been accustomed to being in control, to being needed. But in this new life, he would have to accept what he was given.

He smiled. "Home, then."

They stood and walked away through the arch together. "We'll have to take a taxi," said Alex. "I haven't been allowed to drive since the shooting. I expect to be given the all clear next week."

"That's another thing, I'll miss the Quattro."

"We'll get you a nice red Audi TT. We'll have to go clothes shopping for you, too, you've only got what you stand up in. I've kept promising myself a white leather jacket."

"Bloody woman. Always giving me the 'orn."

Their voices died away as they moved towards the gate. Neither saw the thin, black-coated figure who stood behind a tree in a corner of the garden, watching them go.

_Be happy with him, Alex. _

**TBC**


	8. Acceptance

**Disclaimer: BBC, Monastic and Kudos own Ashes to Ashes, I own nothing but my stories.**

**Massive apologies to everyone for the chaos over my first attempt to publish this chapter on Sunday. After I'd posted it, I checked it over and realised that the site hadn't saved my final round of amendments. Fatally, I decided to delete the chapter while I corrected it, and re-post it when I had finished. Then the site went down. I tried to access it several times in the course of the day, without success, and by the time I could access my account again I was ready to go to bed! I didn't have access to my PC yesterday, so today is my first chance to re-publish the chapter. Apologies to everyone who's been trying to access it over the past 48 hours - especially those who received their e-mail alerts after I'd deleted the chapter and to the 15 people who managed to access it during its brief appearance on the site on Sunday. This is the FINAL version! I just hope you'll think it's worth the wait.**

**Once again, thank you so much to everyone who's keeping up with this story, and for all the wonderful reviews. I'm constantly amazed by the level of attention this story is getting. I'm particularly grateful for all the reassurance about my doubts over Chapter 6. Please keep the feedback coming.**

Molly heard the key turn in the lock and raced down the stairs. She had to blink as the door opened. Ever since the shooting, her mother had looked so white and lifeless that it had almost broken her heart. But when Alex came through the door, she was glowing like a fiery rose. There was something so intensely vital and alive about her that Molly felt dazzled. With her was a man whom Molly had never seen before, tall, broad and fair-haired, with compelling silver-blue eyes. He looked deeply exhausted, as though he had been travelling a long way, but nonetheless exuded a weary magnificence. It didn't take much for Molly to connect his presence with the sudden change in her mother. She felt a brief pang of jealousy, that someone else whom she didn't even know could evoke such a response from her mother when she could not, but she quickly suppressed it. _It's been so long since she's looked this well and happy. I mustn't spoil it for her._

"Mols!" Alex opened her arms to her daughter, and Molly ran into them for a big hug. "Sorry I'm late, darling, my research took longer than I expected. Did you have a nice day at school?"

"Oh, so-so. How did you do with your research?" _And when are you going to introduce this obviously very important man to me?_

"Very well, much better than I'd hoped. Molly, this is D - Superintendent Gene Hunt. I ran into him in town. We worked together a long time ago, and he's going to be my Super in my new job."

The big man came forward and gravely shook Molly's hand.

"Pleased to meet you, Molly." He smiled briefly. "I've 'eard a lot about you." He had a Northern accent, and his voice was gruff but warm. Molly felt it like an electric heater.

"I'm pleased to meet you too, Gene." _Even though I haven't heard _anything_ about you. _Although he could not know it, he had just passed her first test. She had lost count of the number of her mother's boyfriends who had addressed her as though she were no more than a toddler. This one was treating her like an adult. To her relief, he wasn't at all like her mother's usual taste in men. He radiated cleanness, honesty, strength and reliability.

"The people organising his transfer have made a mess of everything," said Alex, quickly and nervously. "They should have been arranging accommodation for him, but they haven't, and to cap it all, his luggage has gone for a walk. He was looking for somewhere to live when we met up. I said that he could stay with us. You don't mind, do you, Mols?"

"Of course I don't. It'll be very nice to have you here, Gene," said Molly politely.

"Thanks, Molly." He smiled again, wider this time. It transformed that grim face.

"Good." Alex completely failed to conceal her relief. "Have you finished your homework yet, Molly?"

"Er - not _quite_."

"Remember, you can only go on Facebook _after_ you've finished your homework. I'll get supper on after I've settled Gene in. Hang your coat up and come upstairs, Gene, I'll show you your room."

The spare room took up most of the top floor of the house. It was large, airy, recently and tastefully decorated, and contained a double bed.

"Loft conversion," Alex explained, taking the room in with a broad gesture. "Bigger than mine, actually. I've got the single on the first floor, opposite Molly's. We did up this room for when her Dad's parents used to come to stay." She was conscious that she was gabbling nervously. What would Gene make of the fact that she was giving him the double room? He looked so weary and bewildered by everything around him that it cut her to the heart. _I mustn't make him think that he's got to sleep with me as a condition of staying in my house. Give him time to find his place in this world and see what he wants to do. _

"Looks fine. Thanks, Bols. D'you think Molly will be okay with my being 'ere?" His nervousness was palpable.

"Don't worry about her. Just give her time," said Alex gently. "She's always a bit wary of men until she gets to know them. She gets that from me. Her father abandoned the two of us when she was six months old, and he's avoided his responsibilities, as far as he can, ever since."

_It can't be the same as 1982. Then I could have dragged him into my flat at any time if I wanted to, and we'd only have been answerable to each other. It'll be so different now, with Molly here. What if she resents him? She was so anxious for me to marry Samuel. _

"Any bugger who'd divorce you an' walk out on your kid is a bloody idiot," said Gene hotly.

"Too right he is. He didn't even remember her last birthday. When I was shot, he was in Canada. Evan contacted him, and he offered to come back if he was needed, but when he found out that I'd come round almost straight away, he stayed where he was. Evan had to nursemaid Molly, all the months I was in hospital."

"Bastard. Better not introduce me to 'im, or I'll get done for GBH."

"You met him in 1982."

"I did? When?"

"Remember the robbery at Bryan and Marjorie Drake's house? Gaynor Mason? Bryan and Marjorie were my in-laws, and their cute little teenage son was my future ex."

"_Drake?_ Bloody 'ell! I never thought of them being connected with you."

"No reason why you should. It's a common enough surname."

"No wonder you were so 'ard on that little squirt. You knew what 'e was goin' to do to you an' Molly."

"Yes, the creep."

"He - he didn't hurt you, did 'e?"

"He didn't beat me up, if that's what you mean. We met at university. He had huge plans about writing a blockbuster novel that would make our fortunes. Translated, that meant that he was a layabout. I was only a WDC when we got married and it was hard enough to make ends meet on my salary before Molly came along. By the time she was six months old I was shattered. I asked him to get a job, and he walked out. If it hadn't been for Marjorie and Bryan, I don't know how I'd have carried on. They were wonderful."

"That's why you were so upset after the robbery. You knew Bryan would be permanently deaf."

"Yes."

"How are they now?"

"Bryan died two years ago. Marjorie lives with her sister's family on the South Coast. She's not very well, hasn't been since he died. Molly and I visit her when we can. Pete's still in Canada, and he can stay there for all I care. I'm just sorry for Molly's sake that he's made so little effort with her. It's hurt her."

"Sorry, Bols."

"Thanks." She squeezed his hand. "I'll go and get supper going. Come down when you want, the living room's on the left at the foot of the stairs."

She disappeared, and Gene sat heavily on the edge of the bed. There was so much that he understood now, that he had not before. Her few dry words had revealed a world of loneliness and hurt. He felt privileged that she had felt able to confide in him. _It's not as if I ever told her anything about why my marriage broke up. _He knew now why, despite all her strength and courage, she sometimes seemed just like a little wounded bird who awakened all his protective instincts. He thought of the little fair-haired girl whom he had carried away from an explosion, and his heart twisted at the thought of what had happened to her since. Without question Evan White had been good to her, but he could guess what a terrible blank there had been in her life after her parents' deaths. Little wonder that she had fallen for a plausible charmer who offered her excitement and a means of escape from life with a staid, ageing bachelor guardian. Now he saw why she had had to present a strong, brave, ballsy front to the world, hiding all the pain where nobody could see it. _Like me._

He understood now, why both Sam and Alex had looked so confused when they first came to his time. It was as if he'd landed on a different planet. He felt exhausted and disoriented, but above all he felt afraid. Alex was all he had in this world, but what if Molly took a dislike to him? He knew that, if Alex was obliged to choose, she would have to put Molly first.

He would gain nothing by skulking in his room. He levered himself off the bed, visited the bathroom which Alex had pointed out to him on the floor below, felt more alert after splashing cold water on his face, and descended to the living room. It was empty, and he guessed that Molly was still doing homework in her room. He sank onto a sofa, picked up an evening paper, and tried to read it, but it was a hopeless task. He scarcely understood a single item. The Queen still appeared to be on the throne, but he was astonished to read that Prince Charles was married to someone else. _What happened to Princess Diana then? _ He was transfixed to discover that London now had a Mayor, whose name was Boris Johnson. _Any relation? No, Summers said he used it as an alias. He was from this time. He was using a name that she'd recognise as being from the future. _Otherwise, names of personalities and politicians, issues, situations, even some countries, were all completely unfamiliar to him. To his disgust, the sports pages didn't even _mention_ City. _She said the world's unimaginably changed. She's right._ There was so much for him to learn.

Dispirited, he threw the paper down beside him on the sofa, rose, and gravitated towards a large desk at one end of the room, which he correctly guessed was Alex's. He was transfixed by the photograph on the cover of the well- thumbed file which lay beside the computer keyboard.

"_Sam…"_

A mournful picture of his old DI, friend and picky pain was stamped SUICIDE. He thanked God that Alex had already told him. He stood by the desk for several minutes, looking at the photograph, before beginning to turn the pages. So these were the reports that Bolly had read. How she had first found out about him. About all of them. He could almost hear Sam's voice in the words he read. They brought back those vanished times so vividly that he felt overwhelmed by a wave of nostalgia so fierce that he had to sit down, swiping tears from his eyes.

Those days would never come again. Sam was gone forever, dead in both worlds. But if Alex was right, this future time had been his gift to Gene. _It's up to me to make the most of it. _

He sat there, reading Sam's anecdotes, even able to laugh a little, amid his sorrow, over a characteristic turn of phrase or a story that he had all but forgotten. Memory was Sam's gift to him too.

"Mum says that that's a confidential file. She won't let me read it."

Molly stood in the doorway. She had changed out of her school uniform, and wore a tee-shirt and jeans.

"Sorry, lass." Gene closed the file and stood up. "I don't think your Mum would mind me looking at it. I used to know 'im, a long time ago, when he an' I were both working in Manchester."

"Who, Sam Tyler?" Molly was clearly surprised.

"That's right."

What could have been a difficult conversation was halted by Alex calling them for supper, and Molly showed him into the kitchen. He hadn't realised that he was hungry. _But then I last ate this morning. Twenty-six years ago._

"Macaroni cheese?" Molly wrinkled her nose in surprise as Alex placed it in front of her.

"What's the matter, darling? Don't you like it?"

"Of course I do, but you'd said that pasta made you feel sick now."

Alex could almost see a question mark above Gene's head. "It did. But today for the first time in ages I felt like eating it again, so I thought I'd give it a go."

She had been dreading that the meal would pass either in awkward silence or with awkward questions, but Gene had not become a DCI _ - no, a Super - _without knowing that, if he needed information and had nothing useful to contribute to the conversation, he should let the other person take the lead. He had already guessed that Molly, like her mother, could talk for England, so he asked her about her school work, her favourite subjects, her tastes in pop music and her favourite bands and singers. He listened with rapt attention while Molly, happy to have a willing audience, held forth, even though he scarcely understood a word she said. Everything he learned about this world was information for him to use.

"What are your favourites, Gene?"

"Nothing you'd like, Petal. All my best music comes from the early '80s, when I was, er, was growin' up. When your Mum was a kid."

"Nothing more recent than that?"

"'Fraid not. Stuck in a time warp, moi."

Molly laughed. She liked the way he talked. _If only he would smile more._

"So, what _are_ your favourites?"

"Let's see. David Bowie - Human League - Blondie - Ultravox - The Clash - Adam Ant - Phil Collins. So far as I'm concerned, music 'asn't been the same since."

"Wow. _Seriously_ retro. Have you got any CDs you could lend me when your luggage arrives and you've unpacked?"

"Sure. Glad to." He had no idea what a CD was, and hoped that the promise would not get him into trouble. Alex didn't look worried, so he presumed it was all right. "Okay with you, Bolly?"

"Yes," Alex and Molly said together, and all three looked confused for a moment.

"Sorry, love, I was addressing your Mum. I always used to call 'er Bolly."

"Why?"

"Because the first bottle of champagne he ever bought me was Bollinger," said Alex, blushing in spite of herself.

_Oho, so you got as far as buying her champagne and nicknaming her, did you? _

After supper, Molly returned to her room, saying archly that she had e-mails to send. Gene, silently resolving to ask Alex for a translation later, repaired to the living room, leaving Alex to stack the dishwasher before joining him. He was sitting on the sofa, reading over his transfer papers. Just the sight of him there, making himself at home in her home, lifted her heart. He looked up.

"Soho Square, Bols. Worked there before?"

"No, it'll be a first time for both of us. What your transfer papers don't say, is that I, and therefore you, will be heading up a new specialist unit."

"Vice squad?" His lips curved in a lascivious grin. "Any chance of gettin' you to go undercover in a strip club?"

"No, we'll be dealing with an influx of crime from Eastern Europe."

"Come again?"

She explained it to him, in much the same terms as the Super had explained it to her, and by the time she had finished, he was almost purple with indignation.

"Sounds like Fagin's kitchen! Bastards using little gyppo kids too young to prosecute? Poor little sods."

"I'm afraid so. It's something where we can make a difference. That's why I accepted the job. Youth crime is a major problem nowadays, expecially if the children are below the age of criminal responsibility. That'll be one of our big challenges. But you must _not_ use words like "gyppo" any longer. The Met's a slave to political correctness nowadays, just like everywhere else."

"What the 'ell's political correctness when it's at 'ome?"

She was still explaining the concept, with Gene spluttering at intervals like a geyser due to erupt, when Molly came in, asking if she could watch _Spooks._ She looked very disappointed to find them talking shop.

"What a good idea, we'll all watch it," said Alex, grabbing the remote. "Do you mind, Gene? We can come back to this later."

Gene, whose brain had absorbed about as much as he could take for the moment, acquiesced. The programme was all but incomprehensible to him, and he let it wash over him while he lost himself in his thoughts. He was bemused by the size and shape of the TV screen, and realised that twenty-first century technology was something else that he would have to learn about. He was relieved to see that Molly appeared to be quite relaxed in his presence. Had he but known it, that was because she was too busy sighing over Richard Armitage to notice him again until the programme was over, when Alex packed her off to bed.

"I'll go up and say good night to her when she calls. It's a routine we've had since I came home from hospital. She needs the reassurance of seeing me before she can go to sleep."

Gene nodded. "Poor kid. Don't want to think what it was like for 'er while you were in a coma."

"Well, luckily the coma lasted less than twenty-four hours, but I had to stay in hospital for a long time after that."

"But you were in 1982 for sixteen months!"

"I told you this afternoon, time runs differently there and here."

"Yeah, I remember Summers sayin' something about that, too."

"Anyway," said Alex, determinedly changing the subject, "I was thinking during the programme that it would be a good idea to show our faces at Soho Square station sometime in the next three weeks. They're doing up a suite of offices for us, and we'll want to make sure that everything's set up as we want it. We'll be too senior to hotdesk, but - "

"Translate," said Gene with a sigh.

An explanation of modern space-saving office practices lasted until Alex heard Molly calling to say good night. Telling Gene that she would be back soon, she climbed the stairs with a fluttering at the pit of her stomach. This would be the first time that they were alone together since Gene had come into the house, and she had an idea that Molly would have some potentially difficult questions for her.

Molly lay in bed, her eyes wide open, fixing Alex with a searching gaze as soon as she came into the room. When Alex bent over her and kissed her, she said, "Why have I never known about him before?"

Alex sat on the edge of the bed. She had already made up her mind what to say. "It was all a long time ago. You were very young. He and I were doing secret work. That's why nobody knew about him, not even Daddy or Evan."

Molly was suitably impressed. "Secret work? Wow, were _you_ a spook?"

"No, but we met one." Alex thought of Edgehampton. "Our secret work involved investigating corruption in the police. He was my superior officer, just as he will be when we start our new jobs. We got on very well, and we came to mean a lot to each other. Then we quarrelled very badly over the handling of a case. We always argued, we're both so quick-tempered. It was a part of our relationship. But this was different. Gene had been given cause to believe that I was working against him, and I was furious because he didn't trust me. We both said things we should never have said, and we parted in dreadful bitterness. Even then, I knew we'd have made it up eventually, when the case was concluded. But then something terrible happened."

"What was that?"

"Gene had discovered that some of our superior officers were even more corrupt than we thought. They were doing awful things, covering up murders, killing people who got in their way, lying, stealing, using the police as a front for their crimes. He was determined to expose them, even though he knew that it would be very dangerous. He's like that."

"Ah, a whistleblower." Molly had watched all the right sorts of TV programmes.

"That's right. He succeeded, but he made a lot of very powerful enemies, and his life was in danger. The only way to protect him was to send him undercover, with a new identity, to do _very_ secret work. He was under strictest orders not to contact anyone he knew or to go anywhere he'd ever been before, or he could be killed."

"Like witness protection?"

"Exactly like that. It happened so suddenly that we could never meet again, not to make it up, not even to say goodbye. I was just told that I must never attempt to get in touch with him again, or I would be putting both our lives at risk."

"But couldn't you have gone undercover with him?"

"If I had, I would have had to leave you behind, and I could never have done that. I had to put you first. I always would."

"So it's my fault that you lost him."

"Of course not! It was the fault of those corrupt police officers. But he was gone, and I thought I would never see him again. I couldn't tell you or anyone else about him in case it put us all in danger. I just had to get on with my life, without knowing whether he'd forgiven me, whether he still loved me or had gone on to someone else, even whether he was still alive."

"So how come he's here now?"

"He told me when we met up today. He'd been undercover for over ten years, and in that time all the people who wanted him dead have died or been jailed. It was decided that it was safe for him to come out of hiding. So now he's come back and has to start all over again."

"How awful for him," said Molly fervently. "So many people he knew must have gone or forgotten him. He has to find his place in the world all over again. It must be like coming back from the dead - or like that programme about the soldiers in World War Two who had been away for seven years, and when they came back they found that their wives and families had learned to do without them."

"Yes. But Gene's a fighter. He's been promoted to Superintendent as a reward for his work while he was undercover. A fresh beginning. But there's a big problem."

"What's that?"

"He's a technophobe, always has been. The trouble is that, with the kind of work he's been doing all this time, he's been able to go very much his own way. He's never owned a mobile phone, and I doubt he's used a computer since I last worked with him."

"Good Lord." Molly was awestruck at the thought. "And computers ten years ago could hardly do _anything_ compared with now. He can't have used the internet... How has he _managed_?"

"Very well, so far, because he has no idea of what he's missing. But in this new job, he'll be expected to use a PC and all the Met's very latest programs and software, he'll be issued with a Blackberry, and he won't have the first idea of what to do with any of it. Our superiors can't realise that he's a technical ignoramus, or he probably wouldn't have got the job. I'll have to spend the next three weeks teaching him the basics."

Molly looked thoughtful. "Would it be any use if I helped? I know how you hate Vista, and I know lots of shortcuts."

"Oh, Mols, it would be wonderful if you could. Thank you so much." Alex almost melted with relief and gratitude. She had embarked on the subject with the idea of enlisting Molly's help, but hadn't dared to hope that Molly might actually offer to assist.

"Just so long as he doesn't wipe iTunes off my PC," said Molly darkly.

"I'll give him my old laptop. There's nothing important on it, so it won't matter if he trashes the hard disk."

"_Gene_," Molly said suddenly. "That was the only thing you said during your coma. I thought you were talking about a woman called Jean, and that puzzled all of us because Evan and I didn't know anyone with that name. You meant him."

"Yes. While I was in my coma, I had a long dream about being with him and working with him. It felt so real. It was such a shock when I came round and found that he wasn't there, and I thought he'd never be there again."

Molly put her head on one side and regarded her throughtfully. "Is that why you turned down Doctor Sam?"

"Yes, it is. After the coma, I knew that I couldn't love anyone else. Even if he'd forgotten me."

"But he hadn't, and you'd never forgotten him."

"No."

Molly winked. "Well, good night, Mum, and good luck. I'll be very disappointed if I come into your room tomorrow and find you asleep there."

Alex flushed scarlet. "Mols, I - "

Molly sat bolt upright. "_Mum_. When you came through the door with him tonight, you looked more alive than you have since _it_ happened. Since long before, actually. I don't know much about this man yet, but he obviously means a lot to you, and right now he's what the doctor ordered. He doesn't seem a very happy bloke, but after what you told me that's not surprising. I can't imagine how terrible it must have been for him, to lose everything and have to start again like that. It looks like he must need you just as much as you need him. _Go for it._"

"Oh, Mols." Alex found herself crying with relief. "I was so afraid that you wouldn't like him - that you'd take against him - "

"Because of Doctor Sam?" said Molly very seriously, and Alex nodded, wiping her eyes. "I know I behaved very badly about that. It was selfish of me. I wanted you to accept him because he was the first boyfriend you'd had, that I'd approved of."

"He was never a boyfriend like that," said Alex gently. "I just liked him."

Molly nodded wisely. "Maybe that's why I liked him too. Because I didn't see him as a threat. The others all saw _me_ as a threat, or cried off as soon as they realised that I'm part of the package. But thank goodness you did turn him down. Imagine how awful it would have been if you'd married him, and then Gene had come back looking for you." Alex nodded with a shudder. "I had a lot of time to think about all this, while you were in hospital. You've been alone for so long, and you've had to lose out on so much while you've been bringing me up. I don't want you to have to wait any longer before starting your own life again. In a few years' time I'll be going to Uni and starting out for myself. I've been scared that I wouldn't be able to do any of that, if you still needed me here. That's why I've wanted you to find someone who'll look after you, the way you've always looked after me. If Gene's prepared to take me on, and he takes care of you and makes you happy, that'll be good enough for me."

"Oh, he will," said Alex softly. "He will. He's a good, kind, decent man. He just doesn't like showing it. He hides his feelings as much as he can because he's been so badly hurt in the past. His father was a brute and his brother died young, then shortly before I got to know him, his wife left him and his best friend died in an accident."

"Then he met you, and then he lost everything. It's high time the two of you found each other again," said Molly decisively. "Off you go, Mum, and remember what I said. Go for it."

"I will if it's what he wants too. He's travelled a long way today, and he's very tired," Alex temporised, kissing her goodnight, and with that Molly had to be content.

She thought that when she returned to the living room, she would have to manufacture some reason for her long absence. She need not have worried. Gene was sprawled on the sofa in front of the television, fast asleep and snoring like an aardvark. She stroked his forehead gently, and he stirred, blinking and embarrassed.

"Wakey, wakey!" she murmured, laughing softly.

He shook his head to clear it. "Sorry, Bols. Don't know what came over me."

"I do. You've travelled an unbelievably long way. It's been one hell of a day for you. The biggest day."

"Yeah. Well, I'll, er, I'll turn in, if that's all right with you, Bols."

"Of course. This is your home too."

There was a moment when one of them should have said something, and it passed before either of them could grasp it.

"'Night, then, Bols. Thanks for everything."

"Good night, Gene."

He hesitated, looking at her, knowing that something more should be said but unable to say it. Nor could she. At last he broke the connection, nodded slightly, and left the room. She listened to the sound of his heavy, even tread as he ascended the stairs.

**TBC**


	9. Unbreakable

**Disclaimer: BBC, Monastic and Kudos own Ashes to Ashes. If I did, Series 3 would be all Galex!**

**Yet again, thank you to everyone who's reading this fic, for all the faves and alerts, and especially for all the amazing reviews. I've just passed my 200****th**** review, yippee! 200 reviews for eight chapters, I can't get over it - I must be doing something right…**

Of course she had no intention of taking Molly's advice. None at all. _I must give him time to decide. _She gave Gene a few minutes to get clear of the bathroom, and then went straight to bed. She'd had a tiring day: goodness knew, they all had. But she could not rest for thinking of Gene, knowing that he slept upstairs. How would he fare in this time? She and Sam had at least had the security of going back to eras through which they had already lived. For Gene, everything would be new. She could not even try to imagine how hard it would all be for him.

After a wakeful hour and a half, tired, hot, cross and uncomfortable, she at last gave in. _No harm in checking to see if he's all right._ She was unlikely to disturb him: he was a heavy sleeper. She got out of bed, reached for her dressing gown, and stopped.

_If I'm going to make a fool of myself, I'll do it properly._

She took off her nightshirt and put on her dressing gown, shivering at the feel of the silk against her bare skin, tied the belt, cautiously opened her bedroom door, and crept noiselessly up the stairs. She turned the handle of the spare bedroom door and tentatively pushed it open. Gene lay on his back, his eyes closed, not snoring for once, his right arm cradling his head, which was turned slightly to one side, his left arm flung out across the empty space beside him. She leaned against the doorframe, her arms folded, and stood watching him for a long time, her heart heavy with pity and love.

_I was wrong to come. Molly was wrong to encourage me. I have no claim on him. When we found each other in St Joseph's, I made him promise never to leave me, but I mustn't hold him to that. He may want to make his own way in this new world and break with all reminders of the past. Including me. He may not be able to forgive me for causing his death and taking him away from everything he ever knew._

She sighed soundlessly and turned to go back to her cold bed.

"_Stay._"

That single word again, uniting them. She turned back to him. He had raised himself onto one elbow and was gazing at her intently. Without looking away from her, he switched on the bedside lamp, and a pool of light fell between them. The gold chain around his neck glittered against his skin. She felt weak with longing.

"I'm sorry, Gene," she said, very low. "I should have left you alone tonight. Forgive me."

"There's only one thing, ever, that I wouldn't 'ave been able to forgive you."

"What's that?"

"If you'd left me alone tonight. Come 'ere."

He held out one arm to her as he spoke, and she had a sudden, vivid memory of the vault at Edgehampton. Wordlessly, she closed the door, walked over to the bed and knelt on the mattress beside him. He looked up at her, suddenly unsure of himself. She took his hand, laid it on the belt of her dressing gown, and drew his wrist downwards. The belt untied, and she heard his intake of breath as the silk fell away and left her naked. She released his hand, and his gaze travelled down her body. His eyes widened and he gave a small, strangled cry.

"What's wrong?"

He reached out a shaking hand to touch the smooth, flawless skin of her stomach. "I - I _shot_ you - "

She took his hand and held it there. "_Gene_. This is 2008. You didn't shoot me in this time. The man who shot me in 2008 was Arthur Layton." With her free hand, she pushed her hair aside to show him the bullet wound again. "Not you. In this time, it didn't happen."

He nodded, assimilating that anew, accepting that, in this new world, he was free from guilt. His arm came around her, drawing her down to him, and she bent her head for his kiss.

He understood now, why she had never been able to give herself to him before, emotionally or physically. If she had, it would have bound her to him and to his time. She would never have been able to return home. For him, he knew, there was no going back. In embracing her, he embraced this new world and this new life, making them his own and giving himself to them, completely. Only a few short hours ago, or over a quarter of a century ago, he had thought that he was going to his death, but now, holding her in his arms, he had never felt so alive.

In all her life, she had never seen anything so beautiful as the ecstatic curve of his body above hers as he reached his peak, arching slowly over her, his head flung back, his eyes closed, those full, soft lips parted in a wordless cry. Then her own climax overtook her, and she could see nothing but wheeling stars. As they slowly returned to earth, he lowered his head over hers, and his mouth took hers in one last kiss before he sank back to the bed beside her and took her in his arms. For a while, she lay there, listening to the thunder of his heart, feeling more happy and content than she had ever been. Then, because it was important that he should know that she wanted him at least as much as he wanted her, she gently disengaged herself, pushed him onto his back, kissed his protests into silence, and claimed him as hers, while he gazed up at her in wonder. She swayed back and forth above him, her head hanging forward, her hair drooping around her face. He reached up to smooth her hair back, gazing deep into her eyes, and she took his hands between hers and kissed them. Those beautiful hands, capable of such violence and such gentleness. Then it was she who arched over him, her head flung back, entwining her fingers with his as ecstasy crashed through her, while he cried out her name and shuddered beneath her. He drew her down to him, wrapping his arms about her, letting her rest upon his broad chest before turning them both onto their sides and holding her close as they both sank into the deep, peaceful sleep of fulfilment.

She had no idea of the time when she awakened, but no light shone through the curtains yet. Lying in the strong circle of his arms, resting against the warmth of his body, she felt a surge of wonder at the miracle of life. All life was a miracle, but that he should have come to her from his own time, that he should be lying like this alongside her, his heart beating, the blood coursing through his veins, the breath of life thrilling through him, was a miracle greater than she would ever be able to comprehend. To think that she had ever doubted that he could be real.

She thought at first that he was still asleep, but when she moved slightly to look up at him, she found him gazing anxiously down at her.

"Gene?" She stroked the line of his shoulder.

"Nothing, I just remembered - I 'ad a dream 'bout waking up with you, while I was in hiding."

"Snap." She smiled. "I dreamt about waking up with you, after you got me out of the cold store."

"Hope yours wasn't anything like mine. That turned into a nightmare."

"Don't worry. This is real."

"I just want to say, love - I don't want to make any trouble between you an' Molly. She might resent me. I know kids often take it badly when their mums get new blokes. If she does, I - I won't ask you to choose between us."

Alex smiled again. "It was Molly who told me to come here tonight. I'd never have had the courage otherwise. She said you're what the doctor ordered."

Gene radiated relief. "What a _very_ bright kid you've got."

"Oh, Gene, I have everything I could ever want now. Both you and Molly. But for me to have everything, you've had to lose everything - your home, your work, your friends, everything you ever knew. Your whole world. I don't know if I'll ever be able to make it up to you, my dear, dear love, but I promise I'll spend the whole of my life trying. I only hope it'll be enough."

He was silent for a few moments, and she understood that he was considering how best to answer. "Once before, I 'ad to leave everything I ever knew, an' start again. After Sam died an' the wife left. A lot of people at GMP 'ad hated Sam because he'd uncovered so many tasty scams an' rackets in the force, an' they hated me because I backed 'im up after we arrested Warren. I knew I couldn't stay there once 'e was gone. There was the chance of the job in London when Mac kicked Garrett out, an' I thought it was time for a fresh start. So I came down 'ere, with Ray an' Chris, to start over. Hadn't realised 'ow different it was goin' to be. Felt like I'd landed on a different planet. But I stuck it, an' made myself a place there. Now I'm starting over again. I've got a job, an' I know I've got a place in this world. With you." His arms tightened about her. "I 'ad Ray an' Chris with me then, an' I've got you now. Where you are, is where I've got to be. I'm where I'm needed. Can't ask for more than that."

"Will I do instead of Ray and Chris, then?" she said in a small voice.

"Oh, you'll do." His voice rumbled with amusement. "You'll do."

"Good. I could grow a perm, but I draw the line at a moustache."

His laughter was rich and warm, filling the room and filling her veins with life and light. He swooped down upon her, kissing her again and again as she pulled the duvet over them both.

Later that night, as she slept in Gene's arms, she heard one final whisper in the wind.

_"Well, Sir?_ " She knew that harsh Irish accent well. It had terrified her so often. But now she felt too happy and too safe to fear, and the voice sounded oddly respectful.

_"No, Mr Summers. You can't come in yet." _A second voice which she did not know, full of the beauty and majesty of age and wisdom. A voice that, even amid her unutterable happiness, she longed to hear again.

_"I've done my best for them, Sir."_ The first voice again.

_"Really, Mr Summers? Do you call goading a man into self-murder the best you can do for him?"_

_"I told him the truth that he refused to hear before. It had to be done. I separated them, so I had to bring them back together. They can't be apart."_

_"I have to agree with you, although I cannot approve of your methods. But aren't you forgetting something?"_

_"Sir?"_

_"They were not your only victims. What are you going to do for the others? The security guards, DC Skelton, and that innocent young constable whom you slaughtered."_

_"I killed him to keep him innocent. If he had lived a week longer, Operation Rose would have corrupted him. He would have become - me. I couldn't wish that upon him. He didn't know it, but to die then was to die most happy."_

_"You need not worry about him. He will have his chance. But there are still the others. Back you go, Mr Summers."_

A faint sigh. "_Very good, Sir."_

-oO0Oo-

Given his state of mind when he went to bed, it was hardly surprising that Gene had not thought to set his alarm, and it had been the last thing on Alex's mind when she joined him. They awakened, luxuriously entwined with the duvet and with one another, to find bright sunshine streaming through the curtains. Alex rolled over and squinted at the clock.

"Oh, my God, it's ten to ten! Molly should have been at school twenty minutes ago! Stay right there, Gene, I'll have to go and wake her up - "

She grabbed her dressing gown, left Gene still dazedly rubbing his eyes, cascaded down the stairs, and raced full tilt into Molly's room, braking sharply at the sight of a neatly made bed and a note propped up against the pillow. She picked it up.

_Good for you, Mum! I saw your room was empty, so I made my own breakfast and I told Evan you're resting. See you tonight. Love Mols xxx_

"Wassup?" Gene stumbled groggily down the stairs, wrapped in a bathrobe. She came out of Molly's room and met him on the landing, smiling radiantly.

"Nothing. Molly's gone to school. She left us to have our sleep out. Bless her."

"What's on today's agenda, then? More of the same?" He jerked his head suggestively towards his bedroom.

"Not until tonight," she said with mock severity. "We have a busy day ahead of us."

"Have we?"

"Breakfast first. Then we'll have to go shopping and get you some things for the luggage that's meant to have gone missing." She counted the items off on her fingers. "A couple more suits, shirts and ties, casual clothes for off-duty and undercover, underwear, socks, boots, shoes, driving gloves, a razor, shaving soap, aftershave, a suitcase - oh, yes, and some CDs of your favourite '80s music to lend to Molly."

"What _are_ CDs?"

"They've replaced LPs. Much more convenient. Then we'll have to start your lessons."

"_EH?_"

"This is 2008. I need to bring you up to date on what's happened over the past twenty-six years in world and domestic history, politics, current affairs, policing, technology and entertainment. Molly's promised to teach you how to use a modern computer, and I'll coach you on everything else. We have to get you up to speed on everything in time to start your new job. We have three weeks."

-oO0Oo-

The next three weeks were pandemonium. Normally Gene would have rebelled against being treated like an overgrown schoolboy, but he was constantly astonished to discover how much he did not know about life in the twenty-first century. It was hard work, but his experience as a detective helped him to retain the information he would need to survive in this world. As he complained to Alex, the more he knew, the more he realised that he did _not_ know. They both accepted that, initially, he would just have to learn enough to get by. More would come later, but at first, they would need to work together more closely than might be expected of a Super and DCI.

"I'm afraid you may come across as something of an old fashioned eccentric to begin with, but so be it."

"Oy, Flash Knickers, less of the old an' eccentric!"

Alex dreaded that, sooner or later, he would say something which would give away his ignorance of the past quarter century. The important thing was to teach him as much as possible before that happened. They had both interviewed enough suspects in their time to know that he was more likely to be tripped up on little details than on the larger issues. Their first rule was, that if he did not understand something, he was to keep quiet, ask no questions, and allow someone else to enlighten him.

Fortunately, they did not have to worry about Molly. Alex's heart-rending account of Gene having been forced to go undercover had given Molly a romantic mental image of him living for years in a log hut miles from anywhere with only a radio transmitter for company, so she was not surprised that he had never heard of _Dirty Dancing_ ("always preferred clean dancing myself, love") or did not know that cigarette advertising had been banned for some years. She was mildly shocked that he knew nothing about global warming and had to be reminded continually of the need to recycle. In her usual faintly bossy way, she took it upon herself to teach him about anything he might not know. As this sometimes included things which he _did_ know, he found this galling at times, and Alex frequently held her breath in case he exploded, but much to her relief he managed to get away with nothing more than the odd irritable growl. He knew that he needed both the women in his life too much, to ruin everything with one bad-tempered outburst.

Molly's patient teaching on computer basics proved invaluable, not only in helping him to reach a state of armed truce with Alex's old laptop, but also in bringing them closer together and helping them to know each other better. Alex found it deeply touching to see their reversal of roles, with her proud Lion fairly meekly accepting tuition from her pert little cub. Learning to use Word, Excel, Access, Powerpoint and especially e-mails, nearly drove him to despair. However, once he had got the hang of typing in URLs and storing favourites, he found the internet invaluable as a guide to finding out almost anything he needed to know about the twenty-first century, and he gained mightily in confidence as a result. "He's like a kid with a new toy," Molly reported to Alex. Google and Wikipedia became his reference points, and the idea of being able to _buy_ things online, without the trouble of going to the shops or sending a form in the post, fairly boggled his mind. "Just don't let him loose on eBay or Amazon, or he'll buy so much stuff that we'll have to move house," said Molly darkly.

As he had always used a police radio, he had thought that learning to use a mobile would be a cinch, but he had reckoned without their complexity. Molly gave him one of her old camera mobiles, but he was fazed by the number of buttons and the different things they did. There was an embarrassing incident when Molly rang him to see if he knew how to pick up a call, and he swore at the phone while trying to locate the Answer key. Unfortunately he had not realised that hitting any key answered the call, and Molly, listening on the other end, picked up some expressions which extended her vocabulary in unforeseen ways. A desperate Alex had to threaten Molly with all sorts of punishments if she used her new swear words in public, but she feared that the damage had been done. The climax came when he tried to make a call and ended up photographing his own nose. After that Alex spared him further embarrassment by finding him a very elderly but simple Philips Savvy on eBay, which didn't include any distracting extras such as camera, MP3 player or radio. Even then, after he more or less mastered making and receiving calls, he found texting too fiddly and refused to have anything to do with it. The new Blackberry, to which, as a Super, he would be entitled, would have to wait.

Alex had feared friction, simply because Molly was not used to having a man about the house, and Gene was not used to living with a child. Although she would never have admitted it to either of them, the development which encouraged her most was when she overheard Molly, talking on the phone to a school friend, describing a new teacher as "nice, but about as interesting as a six-hour documentary on sandwiches". _Once upon a time, she would just have called that teacher "so lame". If she's imitating Gene's one-liners, she _must_ approve of him._

Gene didn't tell Alex about a very serious conversation which Molly had with him in the second week. One evening after school, while she was teaching him how to send e-mails and Alex was safely out of earshot in the kitchen, she turned him and said, very solemnly, "Gene, you like my Mum a lot, don't you?"

Gene's heart sank. _Is this where she warns me off?_ "Yes, love, I do."

"I mean - _really_ a lot?"

"Yeah. Really a lot."

"Good," Molly said firmly, and Gene breathed again. "I want you to promise me that you'll look after her."

"Of course I will."

"She's not as strong as she looks, you know. She's had to play tough for so long that I think she's forgotten how fragile she is. She probably won't have told you, but she's been badly hurt in the past, and I don't just mean what Layton did to her. Her parents were killed by a car bomb when she was eight, then my Dad left us when I was six months old and she had to bring me up on her own. She told me how the two of you split up when you had to go undercover." Gene nodded gravely. Fortunately Alex had updated him on the version of events she had given to Molly. "There have been boyfriends since, but none of them have been any good. I think that's because she missed you. She even turned down someone who wanted to marry her, because of you."

"Oh?" That bit was news to Gene. "May I ask who?"

"The surgeon who saved her life after - after the shooting." Since Gene had arrived, Molly had been able to use the word, but it was still an effort.

"We all owe 'im, then."

"We do. He'd have looked after her, but she didn't love him. She _does_ love you."

Gene smiled. He was doing that more often these days. "Thanks, lass. I was 'oping she does."

"She seemed to come back to life, the day you arrived. That's how much you mean to her. I haven't always behaved well over her boyfriends, but that was because I was scared that they wanted to take her away from me. I know you won't do that."

"You're right, love. I wouldn't even think of it. An' you mustn't be scared, ever, that she'd leave you or neglect you, for me or any other bloke. Because she's your Mum. When she an' I knew each other - before, she was always talking about you, an' how she had to be with you. She'll always put you first."

"Thank you, Gene. That means so much to me. But I know I'll have to go away and start my own life someday, and that's why I want you to promise that you'll always stay with her. She needs you."

"Promise." Gene held out his hand, and she shook it gravely. "Trust the Gene Genie."

He had never thought that he would feel so glad at being accepted by a twelve-year-old. Holding her small hand, he thought of another little girl whose hand he had held, in the aftermath of an explosion, and who had accepted him. It had all started then.

-oO0Oo-

He bought a red Audi TT Quattro Coupé. His eyes came out on stalks when he saw the pictures on the Audi website, although much of the spec might have been written in Chinese for all the sense it made to him, and he returned from the test drive looking like a new man. Alex smiled fondly, knowing that he would only feel complete in this time once he had his car as well as his woman. She gave him her cherished number plate, a gesture which touched him more that he was prepared to say. He made it clear that she would not be allowed to drive the TT, so as soon as she was cleared to drive, she traded in the Lexus for a red Volkswagen. At least it was German. Molly thought the TT was cooler, and begged to be driven to school in it at least once a week, "so that the girls can see it." Gene, one eyebrow raised, promised to consider it.

Alex had known that they would have a problem with Evan. As she had already told Molly that Evan had never known Gene when she had worked with him before, Molly was very surprised when Evan, meeting Gene one evening when returning her home from the school run, reacted as though he had seen a ghost. Gene, forewarned by Alex, skilfully pretended complete ignorance and, when Evan stammeringly explained the reason for his shock, expressed sorrow that he so closely resembled a former acquaintance of Mr White's who had come to such a tragic end, and even shared the unfortunate man's name. Evan eventually had to accept the situation, but Alex realised that he would never be fully convinced. To him, Alex's new Super and companion would be a constant reminder of his own past. Perhaps his continual sense of unease in Gene's presence was his final punishment for his fatal affair with Caroline.

Alex resolved to ask Samuel Gerard for the site of Summers' grave. Someday, she would leave a bunch of flowers there, and she would say that prayer for him. To judge by what she had heard in that final whisper in the wind, he needed it. She still found it hard to forgive him, but whenever she awakened in the night to find Gene sleeping peacefully beside her, she was prepared to acknowledge that, greatly though Summers had wronged them both, he had done his best, in his own way, to make amends.

One thing which exercised both their minds, was whether they should try to locate their former colleagues from Fenchurch East. At first it was a subject which neither could bear to mention to the other, but eventually Alex, determined that there should be no more room for secrecy or misunderstandings between them, raised it one night when they lay in bed, wrapped in one anothers' arms.

"Christ, Bols, don't think I 'aven't thought of it. I don't know what to do. I'd sell what's left of my soul to know where they are an' what's 'appened to 'em, an' find out if they're okay. Don't want to think what they must've gone through after we both came 'ere, specially Chris. Poor sod must've felt so guilty. Whatever 'e'd done, 'e didn't deserve that."

"I know," said Alex soberly. "But he had Shaz. She wouldn't fail him, whatever happened."

"I know, Summers said that."

"I just don't know how we could explain that we're still alive, and no older than when they knew us last. Remember, you nearly gave Evan a heart attack when he met you the other day."

"Bloody 'ell, I'm trying to think of little Annie as a 62-year-old. An' Ray would be over 70."

She stroked his chest soothingly. "Don't worry about it just yet. At the moment we have to give priority to getting you up to speed on life in 2008."

"That's what's worrying me. Don't know 'ow much more knowledge my brain can cope with."

"You're doing very well. We'll have time to think about whether to look for them, once we've established ourselves at Soho Square and bedded into our new jobs."

"Something else I'm more interested in bedding into." He pulled her under the duvet.

She had not told him that she had made enquiries about the location of the grave of DI Alex Drake, who had died on 13 December 1982, and had learned that he had been buried next to her. Someday she would take him to see it, and would show him the wording on her tombstone, but the idea made her feel uneasy. The happiness they had found in the present would always be shadowed by the thought of what their friends had lost in the past.

-oO0Oo-

Gene had been enraged to learn that he was not allowed to smoke in public places or in his new office. He admitted to Alex that it was the single hardest new thing about his life in 2008. He had reluctantly accepted that he could not smoke in her house - _their_ house, Alex insisted - outside of their bedroom, to avoid exposing Molly to cigarette smoke, but he blew his top when they took a morning out of his lessons to visit Soho Square station and inspect the office suite which was being renovated for them, and the foreman in charge of the building work asked him to extinguish his cigarette.

"Look 'ere, Mister 'Ard 'At, this is goin' to be _my_ office an' _my_ team, an' I will bloody well smoke if I want to!"

"But, sir, there's a non-smoking policy in all Met buildings, and it'll set off the smoke alarms and sprinklers - "

"Disable 'em or I'll disable _you_!"

"We can't, Sir - it would affect our insurance policy - "

"Er - Gene - there's a lot of exposed wood around while they're making the new partitions," said Alex tactfully. "Perhaps just while we're going around, and you can light up again when we get outside?"

"But 'ow the 'ell am I expected to keep gyp - Eastern European scum off the streets without my nicotine fix?"

She steered him into an empty office and murmured wickedly, "I'm talking to the man who once bugged his own Super's office. I'll never forget the sight of you, standing on Mac's desk. Legs without end. Once we're working here, I'm sure you'll find a way to climb on the desk and disable the smoke alarm in your office. Just don't smoke in the Gents or the corridors."

He muttered something obscene and marched out into the main office. "Right, 'Ard 'At, fag _out_. Where's my office?

The foreman looked terrified. "On the third floor, sir. If you'd care to follow me - "

"_What_?" Gene looked as though he was about to blow another gasket. "How am I meant to keep in touch with my team from there? Bloody remote control? One o' these surveillance cameras? _An' what's so funny, Drake_?"

"Nothing." Alex tried to hide her smile. He would never admit it, but she knew that he dreaded the idea of being located so far from her that he would not be able to ask for her help when some new official term or piece of technology perplexed him. "At least let's go and look at it."

He just about kept his temper in check until they were in the office.

"You see, Sir," said the foreman timidly, "it's the most luxurious office in the place, and much the biggest. Double sized desk, bookcase, side table, conference table seating twelve - "

"Use it for conferences then." Gene was at his calmest and most authoritative. "I believe in keeping close to my team. I'll 'ave an office on the ground floor."

"But there are only two closed rooms there, Sir. One will be DCI Drake's office and the other's the ground floor conference room. The rest is all open plan."

"They can 'old their bleedin' conferences up 'ere." Gene was ruthless. "I'll take the other ground floor room."

"Yes, Sir," said the foreman faintly. "That will mean a change to the work specification. I'll have to make out a variation order. Would you mind coming down to the site office while I type it? We'll need your signature before we can proceed with the variations."

As it happened, Gene did mind, very much, but Alex took him outside for a smoke while the foreman made out the variation, and Gene returned to the site office to sign it, defiantly reeking of fags.

"Don't worry," she whispered consolingly to the foreman before steering Gene out of the building, "he's always like this when he gets nicotine withdrawal symptoms." The foreman nodded and mopped his brow. As they left, she caught sight of staff from the other, already occupied offices, gathered in the doorways and whispering to one another.

_They must have heard the shouting. The Manc Lion's reputation precedes him before he starts his first day in his new post. God help all criminal scum and all sloppy, underperforming, politically correct coppers. His reign of terror has already begun._

-oO0Oo-

On their first day at Soho Square, Alex got Evan to take Molly to school one more time, so that she and Gene could sweep into their new kingdom together. On arrival, he marched grandly into his office, and Alex walked around the members of her new team who had already arrived, introducing herself and learning something about them. Some of the paperwork had not arrived yet, and she did not know all their names. Inevitably, there were problems with IT equipment, telephones which had not been connected, and malfunctioning radiators and tea urns. _Met efficiency strikes again._ The place would be swarming with electricians and IT staff for hours. When the whole of the team had assembled, she intended to take them all off to the conference room, introduce herself and Gene to the team, and do a presentation about the tasks they faced. _Fire up the flipchart._

She let herself into her new office and froze at the sight of a single red rose and a long cream envelope on her desk. She knew the writing. _God, not again. Not here_. She picked the rose up with a tissue, consigned it to the bin, and opened the envelope with trembling fingers. It contained a transfer form and a letter.

_My dear Alex, _

_I trust that the enclosed discharges my remaining obligations to you and to the members of your former team._

_In affectionate farewell,_

_M.S._

She smoothed out the transfer form, read it, smiled broadly, and took it into Gene's office. A couple of minutes later, his door flew open and he barked at the desk sergeant, "Oy! You! When the new DI arrives I want 'im in 'ere right away! _Is that clear?_"

"Yes, Sir," the hapless Sergeant Perry faltered. Leaving Gene's office, Alex noticed how everyone in her team had jumped at the sound of the Lion's roar. _They'll get used to it._

"What a filthy-tempered brute!" DS Terry Vernon muttered in a shocked undertone as she passed his desk.

"Don't worry," she said consolingly. "He and I are old colleagues, so I'm used to it. Underneath he's a very nice man."

"Oh. You mean that his bite isn't as bad as his bark?"

Alex smiled. "Actually," she murmured confidentially, bending over Vernon's desk, "it's a lot worse."

The door of Gene's office flew open again. "DRAKE!"

"Coming, Gu - Sir." Leaving Vernon staring after her, open-mouthed, she scuttled into Gene's office and closed the door. Gene was glaring at his computer screen.

"Bolly, someone's sent me something in this e-mail an' the computer's asking me whether I want to open it or save it!"

"So?"

"So, which _do_ I want to do?"

She looked over his shoulder at the screen. "You won't know whether you want to save it until you've read it, so point the cursor to Open and - "

There was a diffident knock at the door.

"Come in!" Gene roared, still glaring at the screen. The door opened and their new DI walked in. They recognised him at once, even though the thick dark hair was now streaked with grey, not gold, and wire-rimmed spectacles were perched on the prominent nose. Gene rose and held out his hand.

"Morning, Chris. 'Ow's Shaz?"

"Boss? _G-Guv_?"

The newcomer stared at the man and woman who had died more than a quarter of a century ago, and keeled over in a dead faint. Alex, with a sympathetic cry, seized a glass of water and ran to help him. Gene leaned over his desk, the corners of his mouth twitching in a sardonic smile.

"Y'know, Bolly, this could even be _fun_."

-oO0Oo-

_All right, Mr Summers. You can come in now._

**THE END**

**Now I've finished this story, I have a confession to make. When I first wrote it, the first six chapters were in a different order. What are now Chapters 1, 3 and 5 (the three chapters about Gene in 1982) came first, followed by what are now Chapters 2, 4 and 6 (the three chapters about Alex in 2008). That's because, originally, there was only going to be one chapter about Alex, but when it expanded to three, I decided that I couldn't leave Gene's fate undecided for three whole chapters. I also thought that the Alex chapters weren't so good as the Gene chapters, and that if I put all three together, the story would sag in the middle. **

**Now that I've posted them, I'm not sure whether I made the right decision. Please let me know what you think, via the poll on my profile page or a review. **

**Once again, I thank you all!**


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